


honey don't feed it (it will come back)

by tragicallynerdy



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Coyote Clayton, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Romance, Shifter AU, Slow Burn, Wolf Matthew, injuries, like so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26151736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragicallynerdy/pseuds/tragicallynerdy
Summary: In another life, the Reverend Matthew Mason does not go to Deadwood. Instead he answers the call to a tiny church, in a tiny town, in the middle of nowhere. Life is simple, and quiet, until one day he finds an injured coyote under his rose bushes, the same week that Jeb White starts bragging about shooting an outlaw shifter.
Relationships: Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 29
Kudos: 107





	honey don't feed it (it will come back)

**Author's Note:**

> Written because I love shifter AU's, dammit, and wanted to write a slow-burn romance. Please heed the tag for pining. 
> 
> For any interested, I made a spotify playlist for this fic - it is vaguely shifter-themed, and very folksy. If that sounds like something you'd enjoy, feel free to take a listen [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7BCy857ssPBt8ZwKRGVB8k?si=KIa9IbJoTLGG1uCEtlnQiw).
> 
> The title comes from It Will Come Back by Hozier (which is perhaps cliche for a shifter au, but it was too goddamn perfect).
> 
> Shoutout to everyone in the Undeadwood discord for being encouraging, and especially thanks to afearsomecritter for doing some beta work and offering ideas and generally being wonderful. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!

Matthew had been seeing the dog for weeks when he found the first trail of blood on the dirt road leading up to his tiny country church. The animal was small-ish, with a shaggy black coat, and always too far away to see properly. He looked, and smiled, but paid it no mind. Feral dogs weren’t an unusual thing, in this sort of place. This little corner of Wyoming was full of critters, and the woods often rang with the calls of wild things.

But then one afternoon as he walked home from town, he noticed the tang of blood in the air, and the faint scent of some sort of animal lingering the closer he got to the church. Then he saw the drag of rusty brown dried blood on the road, barely noticeable in the dirt. He followed it, and found another smear along the thick hedge of rose bushes he kept trying to tame along the side of the church – and a thicker smear leading into the thick of them. The scent of blood was heavier, and impossible to ignore.

(And here he reminded himself that ‘dog’ might not be the right term – he’s seen black scruff and reflective eyes and the flick of a tail, always moving too fast for him to make out any features – it was far too small to be a wolf, and he'd have known their scent anywhere. But it could very well have been a coyote, although he’d not heard the distinctive yips and howls that made up a coyote’s song in some time. “A dog,” he told himself, to calm his nerves. “Just a stray dog.”)

He knelt down and peered into the dark of the thicket. Nothing. He shuffled closer and tried to shove some of the bushes apart, cursing the thorns that made the bushes to treacherous to navigate. He caught a glimpse of grey-blue eyes and thick black fur, heard the sound of a snarl, and froze. He pulled his hand back, slow as he could, and forced himself to stay calm. The scent of fear met his nose.

“Easy there, boy,” he murmured. “Easy, I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Ten minutes later he was shoving a bowl of cooked meat and rice and beans into the thicket as deep as he could reach, a heavy piece of cloth wrapped around his forearm up to the shoulder to protect him from the thorns. Not that he'd need it; he'd heal up quickly, he always did. But better to keep the scent of his own blood from his newfound friend.

“I pray you can eat this, my friend,” he said, keeping the same low, easy tone. He moved away from the bushes and sat in the dirt to wait, and watch, and listen. The ~~coyote~~ dog (it’s a _dog_ , Matthew) didn’t appear, but after ten minutes of waiting he heard the faint sounds of an animal scarfing down food.

“Good,” he said with a smile. “Thank the Lord. I’ll bring you more in the morning.”

* * *

It took two more days for him to see the animal properly. He fed it, morning and evening, gradually placing the bowl closer and closer to the mouth of the bushes in hopes of coaxing the poor thing out. It worked, and slowly but surely the cautious creature had emerged. The first time he left the bowl just outside the brambles, it had taken a full thirty minutes for the dog to emerge enough to eat, poking just its head out of the bushes and keeping one wary eye on Matthew the entire time it ate.

“Hello,” Matthew had murmured. “That’s alright, we can take our time, can’t we?”

The dog didn’t reply, but it seemed less anxious, after that, and Matthew couldn’t help but feel smug, and satisfied in his own ability to appear less than the predator that he was.

The next morning was much the same; he left the bowl a foot from the bushes this time, and when it became clear that he wasn’t going anywhere the dog came crawling forth.

“Oh, you ain’t no dog at all,” Matthew muttered to himself, staring at the long legs, the pointed ears, the narrow features. “Well, shit.”

It was a coyote, a black one, with sharp blue-grey eyes.

“Ain’t never seen a coyote that colour,” Matthew mused. “You’re special, ain’t you?”

The coyote flattened itself to the ground and bolted the food down quicker. Matthew frowned, and sniffed the air, alarm coming over him at the scent of fresh blood (and fear, thick and cloying) that still lingered.

“That shoulda closed by now,” he said, leaning forward to try and see whatever wound the animal is carrying. He caught a glimpse of a thin trail of matted, wet fur on one haunch before the coyote snarled and vanished, meal abandoned.

“Fuck.”

He sat for another hour, but the coyote never re-emerged. Finally he sighed, and went inside, leaving the half-empty bowl where it lay.

“Sorry for scaring you, my friend,” he whispered at the mouth of the bushes, where the scent of blood lay thicker. _How did I not notice, how -_

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

* * *

He was in town the next afternoon when he heard a conversation that made his suspicion grow, along with his concern.

“You gotta keep an eye out for them coyotes,” Jebediah White was saying, leaning over the table and gesturing at his pals. “They keep getting bolder by the day. Just last week I found one skulking around my chicken coop.”

“Ya shoot it, Jeb?” Pete Saunders asked. “You get a nice coyote pelt dryin' back home?”

The other men laugh, and Jeb scowled. “Nah. It ran off with my prized hen in tow. Had a nice black coat too, woulda made me good money. Thought I’d shot it, but the fucker bolted before I could bring it down proper-like.”

“Gotta be extra careful,” Samuel Richmond said. “I hear there’s an outlaw, one a them fucking shifters, that’s a coyote. Done saw the wanted poster myself.”

“I seen it too!” Jeb exclaimed, slamming his hand on the table. “I started using silver bullets for coyotes just in case. Maybe I’ll get me a bounty if I kill one and it turns into a man.”

The other men started laughing, but Matthew’s blood ran cold. _Well, fuck me running._

He didn’t stay to hear the rest of the conversation.

* * *

He wasn’t sure the right way to go about this, if he was being totally honest with himself. How does one lure out a most-likely-but-not-definitely shifter, one who’s hurt and hiding and so terribly afraid? Matthew thought of his own checkered past, his own nights spent hiding in fur, and did what he thought he would have wanted.

He gathered old towels and strips of linen, a medicinal ointment, a needle and gut, and a thin pair of pliers that he likes to pretend are for handiwork. He tucked it in his bag beside his bowie knife, loaded his gun, and gathered a bowl of clean water and a bowl of food. Then he sat himself in front of the brambles, and waited until he heard movement.

“I believe I know you, friend,” he said, staring out at the sunset painting the horizon in brilliant shades of red and purple. “Or of you, at least. You’re a shifter, aren’t you?”

The rustling in the bushes, the sound of something crawling closer, froze. The scent of fresh blood wafted out from the tangle of thorns and flowers. Matthew dug into his bag and pulled out his supplies, laying it all on a towel and waiting with his hands open and empty.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he called. “I’d like to help you, if I can. I believe you’ve got a silver bullet in your leg. That’s why it ain’t healing.”

Five minutes passed, then ten. Matthew set the food down at the mouth of the bushes, then settled himself in for a long wait.

“Eat if you want to,” he murmured. “Get up your strength. But the bleeding ain’t gonna stop until we get that bullet out.”

He almost didn’t notice when the slim black coyote slunk from the brush, hackles raised and eyes wary. He smiled, and waited as it ( _he_ , _Matthew, it’s not an animal_ ) scarfed down the simple meal of rice and beans, followed by the piece of raw meat that Matthew hoped would help. Eating always helped him when he was on four legs, after all.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said, keeping his smile calm and soft, like he smiles for old Missus Daniels. “Take your time.”

* * *

It was almost dark by the time the coyote slunk closer, tail tucked firmly between his legs. Matthew held up the lantern he’d barely remembered to tuck under one arm on his way out, frowning at the pronounced limp that he’d somehow missed before.

“Do you mind if I light this? Be a bit hard to see what I’m doing in the dark.”

The coyote lowered himself to the ground, tucked his nose between his paws and pointed his ears towards Matthew expectantly. Matthew took this for a yes, and lit the lantern, keeping his movements slow and fluid.

“My name is Matthew,” he said, striking the match and holding the small flame to the wick. “Matthew Mason. I’m the Reverend of this here church, and you’re always welcome.” He smiled as the wick took light. “I promise I won’t prune the bushes back too far, in case you ever have need of them again.”

The coyote snuffed, and Matthew laughed. He set the lantern beside himself and rolled his sleeves to his elbows, then scrubbed his hands in the water. He glanced at his new companion, fought to keep the frown from his face at the sight of ribs standing out underneath fur. 

“I apologize in advance,” he said as he threaded the needle with practiced fingers. “Removing a bullet ain’t pleasant, and I hear that silver makes it worse, for your kind.” The coyote inched closer, and he set down the needle, holding out one hand for inspection. The coyote sniffed the air, still some two feet away. “But I suspect you already know that.”

He waited, hand outstretched, until the coyote crawled close enough to touch. He sniffed Matthew’s hand, then licked it, just once. Matthew smiled at the touch, then drew his hand back. The coyote pushed himself to his feet, limping close enough to sniff at the pliers and needle and water lying on the towel. He bared his teeth at the ointment, and Matthew nodded, putting it to the side.

“None of that then, alright. Smell bad, does it?”

The coyote stared at him, and he stared back, placid smile on his face. He held out his hand again, until the coyote brushed closer, fur coarse under his fingers.

“May I see your leg?” Matthew asked kindly.

The coyote ignored him for a moment, sniffing his leg as Matthew stroked his fur, touch light as a feather. He ignored the fine tremors running through the shifter (for that is what he is, Matthew knew it now, beyond a shadow of a doubt) and waited for him to complete his inspection of Matthew’s person. He knew how this went, knew how tenuous the trust was, how fragile. He’d been there before, in this wary place of unsurety.

He felt thick scars over the knobbly bits of the shifter’s spine, and wondered how many times this had happened to before.

“Take your time, son,” he hummed. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

It took another minute for the shifter to turn, presenting his injured haunch for Matthew’s inspection. Matthew set a hand gently on his back and brought the lamp closer, peering at the wound. 

“Good lord, son…” the shifter’s ears flattened against his skull, hackles raising, and Matthew stroked his fur soothingly. His fur settled, but the ears stayed where they were. “Shhh, I’m sorry. It just looks like it hurts, is all.”

The wound was open and raw, fur licked away by insistent attempts to clean the wound. It looked like he’d tried to dig the bullet out with his teeth and failed, stymied by either the depth of the bullet or the pain it caused him. This close Matthew could smell the tang of silver coming from the wound, smothered by the scent of blood and a hint of infection. A steady trickle of blood ran from the wound, clotting prevented by the silver that Matthew knew from experience would make the wound _burn._ He’d been cut with silver before, and remembered the blistering pain well – he couldn’t imagine having a piece of it _lodged_ in him, let alone for days.

“This might be easier if you lay down,” Matthew said. “Looks like I might have to dig a little for the bullet.” The coyote shifted in place nervously. Matthew hummed and pet him again, pleased at the feel of fur under his fingertips, at the trust that was being placed in him with even that allowance. “Up to you though, friend. I can make do.”

The coyote turned his head and stared at Matthew, eyes glowing in the lamplight. Then he lay down, flattening himself to the dirt on his side. Matthew pet him again, then shifted slowly, carefully, till he could reach the leg easily. He placed the lamp beside him, then reached for the water and pliers.

“Well done, my child,” he murmured. He splashed whisky on the pliers, then splayed a hand on the coyote’s leg, holding him still. The coyote craned his neck back to look at Matthew, still so _quiet,_ shaking underneath his hand. The scent of fear sharpened.

“You’re alright,” Matthew said. “You’re gonna be just fine.”

Then he dug.

* * *

It took longer than it should have to dig out the silver bullet, which had dug its way deep into muscle and bone. Matthew was close to swearing by the time they were done, and the coyote had started whimpering, short, cut-off noises that wrenched his heart. He’d kept up a steady stream of quiet reassurances throughout, one hand pinning the shifter’s leg to the ground, the other working the pliers. Finally he wrenched the bullet free, dropping it on the towel and hoping the coyote wouldn’t notice the care he took not to touch it.

The coyote was moving as soon as the bullet was free, curling back to nose his hand aside and lick insistently at the wound. It was bleeding heavily now, rivulets running through the dark fur. Matthew shifted, moving his hand to stroke the shifter’s back soothingly. He understood how it was, when you were in fur (or scales, or whatever form you took) – sometimes instincts were strong, and when you were already hurt or afraid it was easier to give in.

“Thank the Lord,” Matthew said, letting his hand lie heavily on the shifter’s back. He preferred a heavier hand himself, when his fur was being pet, and hoped it would calm his new friend down. “You did well, son. You let me know when you’re ready for me to stitch it. I know you’ll heal fast, but it’ll help keep anything from getting in there, and speed things up a bit.”

The coyote ignored him and continued cleaning the wound as Matthew pet him. Slowly the tremors running through the shifter’s body quieted, calmed, then disappeared entirely. After a few minutes he left the wound alone, turning to look at Matthew with those uncanny blue eyes. Matthew smiled.

“Will you let me clean too? I know you did a good job, but you can never be too careful.” He held up the bowl of water and the needle and gut. The coyote sniffed at both, then lay back down, yipping once and thumping his tail against the ground. Matthew laughed, delighted by the noise. “Thank you for your permission,” he said, steadying the leg once more. “You’re a most agreeable patient.”

The coyote huffed, and Matthew got to work.

* * *

“There, that should do it,” Matthew said, examining the neatly stitched wound, then wiping away the blood with a clean bandage. “Now I know you shifters heal fast, but I reckon this might take a bit longer than normal given how long it took to get the silver out.”

He hesitated, unsure of how whatever he was going to say next would be taken. “If you’d like, you’re welcome to stay in the church with me while you heal. It might be more comfy than my rose bushes.”

The coyote bolted, and was ten feet away before Matthew even had time to react, hackles raised and lips curled back from his teeth. Matthew startled, hands flying up instinctively. _He’s fast._

“Whoa, hey now,” Matthew said, keeping his voice calm and slow. He relaxed, letting his hands rest back on his knees. “It’s just an offer, son. I ain’t gonna force you to stay.”

The coyote danced a few feet away, the limp still evident in his step. Matthew smiled and nodded.

“That’s a no, then. Well, you’re welcome to the rose bushes as long as you’d like. And if you ever want inside, just come and bark at the door.” He waved a hand at the clean bandages still lying on the towel. “Want me to bandage that up for you, though? I can change it in the morning if you’d like.”

The coyote’s ears flattened against his skull.

“I understand, I don’t like bandages much either.”

The coyote slunk closer until it was almost in reach. Matthew held out his hand, and the coyote sniffed it, then licked his knuckles. Matthew grinned, delighted. Then the coyote was off, slinking back into the bushes and out of sight.

“You’re welcome,” Matthew called after him. He sat under the stars, sense of rightness, of purpose in his role here in this tiny little church restored. “Always happy to help.”

* * *

The next morning Matthew brought out his own breakfast, a bowl of oats for him, and a bowl of cold rice and beans and another hunk of meat for the coyote. He set it down and moved away, the routine now customary.

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” he said as he waited, looking at the clouds and letting the heat from his bowl seep into his palms. “I won’t be able to bring you a meal until the evening, I don’t want to risk anyone arriving early and trying to defend the church unnecessarily.” He sighed, then took a bite of his oats, humming at the simple pleasure it brought. “I apologize in advance for the noise as well. The bell can be quite loud.”

All was quiet for the ten minutes it took Matthew to eat his meal. He looked up as the rose bushes rustled, the coyote slinking forth and towards the bowl. He paused before he ate, looking at Matthew and wagging his tail.

Matthew grinned. “Hello to you too.”

* * *

Matthew walked into the sheriff’s office with his Bible under his arm, eyes already scanning the wall lined with bounty posters.

“Be with you in a moment!” the sheriff calls from the back, where Matthew had watched him step just a moment before he’d walked through the door. He'd been waiting, and he prayed he'd have enough time.

“Take your time, Sheriff!” Matthew called, moving to the bounty posters. He saw two that had the words “shifter" enblazoned across them, and eased them from the wall, taking a third for good measure.

He had them folded and tucked away in his suitcoat in a flash, scanning the wall for the poster he still desperately hoped wouldn’t show up in this podunk little town. A door slammed, and Matthew distanced himself from the wall and turned to face the desk. Floorboards creaked in the hall, and Matthew plastered on his most harmless smile. The scent of silver polish and gun oil and the faint crackling of anger swept into the room, diluted as it was to Matthew’s human nose.

The sheriff wasn’t as tall as Matthew, but he carried an air about him that was intimidating nonetheless. The trace of anger in his scent always put Matthew slightly on edge, and something in his eyes was just a little too sharp, a little too suspicious. Matthew straightened his back as the lawman stepped into the room, his frown fading at the sight of him. 

“Oh, Reverend, it’s just you.” Sheriff Ainsley nodded at Matthew and sat behind his desk. “Anything I can help you with on this fine afternoon?"

“Ah, well, I was actually coming to check if you had any ah – prisoners who might welcome some prayer or reading from the Word of our Lord." He held up his Bible sheepishly. "It’s been a while since I checked in and asked.”

Sheriff Ainsley shook his head. “Our cell's empty at the moment, I’m afraid. But I’ll be sure to let you know if that changes.”

Matthew nodded and smiled. “That would be mighty appreciated. You never know when someone’s in need of some comfort or salvation.”

“Yes, you never can tell,” Sheriff Ainsley said drily.

Matthew nodded and put on his hat. “Well, then I’ll be going. But ah – maybe I’ll see you at the Church on Sunday?”

The sheriff nodded, already returned to his books. “I’ll be there with Eliza and the little ones. Good day, Reverend.”

“Good day, and the blessing of God go with you in your work.” Matthew tucked his Bible back under his arm and left, his mission complete.

* * *

“I… I have a confession,” Matthew said that evening, watching as the coyote practically inhaled his meal. He still ate like he was starving, like Matthew might try and steal the meal if he doesn’t eat quickly enough. Matthew wondered how long he’d been on the run. Matthew wondered how long he’d been in this form.

“I have your bounty poster,” Matthew said, softly. He knew the coyote can hear him anyway. He’d have been able to hear, in his other form.

The shifter stopped and looks at him, ears flat and hackles raised. The scent of fear sharpened. His lips curled back from his fangs.

“At least, I think I do,” Matthew continued. He smiled sheepishly and held out the folded stack of posters. “I haven’t looked. I took whichever ones said ‘shifter' on them. I’m uh, I’m assuming that you’ve got a bounty on you, otherwise you’d be shifting back and letting me help you that way.”

The coyote stalked closer, a snarl now rising in his throat. Matthew held up the posters.

“I ain’t gonna turn you in, son,” he reassured. “Ain’t got no interest in that. I’m going to burn them, unless you have any objections. But I’d like to know your name, if that’s alright.”

The snarl died. Matthew smiled as the coyote stalked closer, hackles still raised. He held out the posters, and the coyote sniffed them. He looked at Matthew, then at the posters, then back at Matthew. Finally his fur settled, and he sat back on his haunches. He licked Matthew’s hand, then yipped quietly.

Matthew grinned. “Thank you, son.” He unfolded the posters, noting the tension in every line of the coyote’s body, how closely he was watching Matthew.

It only took him a moment to find the description he was looking for. A black coyote, of indeterminate size. He looked at the poster's picture, and blinked. _Fuck, he’s handsome._

He read the name, then refolded the posters and tore them into pieces. He looked at the shifter and smiled.

“Hello, Clayton."

* * *

“Blessed are the merciful,” Matthew preached on Sunday, voice carrying to every corner and every soul in his tiny church. “For they shall be shown mercy. Let us remember these words of the Lord, and carry them in our hearts and minds, and show _mercy_ to those around us. The Lord calls on us not to judge, not to harm, but to show mercy, as he has shown his great mercy to each and every one of you sitting here today.”

He stared at Jebediah White, and tried to allow mercy into his own heart.

(He didn’t quite manage.)

* * *

“I’m sorry that he hurt you,” Matthew said to Clayton that evening, when the coyote came out to greet Matthew and devour the stew Matthew had brought. “It wasn’t right.”

Clayton had paused in his meal and stared, licking the stew away from his jowels. Matthew shrugged.

“Some might say it’s justice,” he’d said, looking away. “But I’m of the opinion that bounties are not a just or merciful way of keeping the law. I don’t know what you did, and I don’t much care. But what Jeb did weren’t right.”

Clayton had thumped his tail against the ground, and returned to his meal. When he’d licked the bowl clean he crept closer, then sat, cocking his head and listening to Matthew speak. Matthew’s fingers itched to bury themselves in his fur, but he stayed where he was. He talked of the congregation, of the petty squabble between Miss Lossie Downing and Missus Ida Snow over the upcoming children’s picnic, and of the renovations he was planning for the church.  
  
“I’d love some stained glass for her windows,” he’d mused. “I think she’d be beautiful, don’t you?”

Clayton had yipped, and thumped his tail, and Matthew had smiled.

* * *

Two days later Clayton was gone. Matthew had opened the door and found a dead rabbit on his stoop, neck torn but the rest of it’s body intact. He smiled, murmured a quiet thank you, and took it inside. It made a delicious stew. It never quite stopped the loneliness that crept back in now that his erstwhile companion was gone, but it kept his belly warm and full.

And that was enough, for now. (It had to be.) He returned to his daily routine, and scratched his plans to prune back the rose bushes off his to-do list.

“I think I like them as they are,” he said to himself, as if trying to convince some absent listener that he wasn’t leaving them just as a refuge, as an invitation to return. “They’re quite beautiful this time of year.”

* * *

Weeks passed, and then months, and autumn descended on the sleepy little Wyoming town. Matthew stocked up provisions, and thanked every parishioner who drops off jars of pickled vegetables, of sweet jams and jellies, or hunks of dried meat.

“You’re ours,” every gift said, “as much as we are yours.”

Matthew hadn’t felt welcome in a community in a long time. But he was beginning to grow roots here, to feel stable, like he's a part of something bigger. It was nowhere close to the sense of connection and family that came with having a pack, but… he liked the feeling all the same. (Although he never stopped checking the bounty posters.)

* * *

It was a crisp fall evening when Matthew heard scratching at the door of the tiny living quarters on the back of the church. His hand was on his pistol when he heard a yip, then the thud of a tail against the ground.

He opened the door, a wide grin already on his face. Clayton sat there, blinking up at him in the lamplight. His tail thudded against the ground again at the sight of Matthew’s silhouette.

“You came back!” Matthew crouched down, extending a hand in greeting. Clayton slunk closer and sniffed his hand, then licked his knuckles. Matthew beamed. 

“Would you like to come inside?” he nodded his head into the kitchen, where the smell of fresh pie still lingered. “You’re welcome to some pie.”

Clayton’s ears pinned flat to his head, and he inched backwards. Matthew nodded.

“Just give me a moment then, I’ll bring out some vittles for the both of us.” He waited until Clayton’s tail thumped again, then piled a bowl full of leftover meat and rice and beans, and a set a slice of pie on a plate for himself.

“I thought you might want something more filling,” he said as he set the bowl down on the ground. Clayton was trotting over to sniff it before Matthew had moved more than a foot away. Matthew laughed at his enthusiasm and sat down, idly noting that he would need to bring a blanket or a coat out the next time Clayton chose to visit. It was getting colder, the air crisp in a way that made Matthew crave cups of hot tea and slices of apple pie. The leaves were turning, and Matthew wondered how long it would be before it snowed.

Matthew watched Clayton eat, a content smile on his face. He liked it, having someone else to provide for, even if only in this small way. His eyes scanned the coyote, noting with pleasure that he seemed a bit less skinny than he had before, and his coat was thicker and heavier, and shiny with the signs of good health.

“You winter coat’s coming in, huh.”

Clayton wagged his tail and continued eating, scarfing down the meal like he had every time before. Matthew smiled, and focused on his own pie.

A minute later a furry snout was sniffing at the pie in his hands. Matthew laughed and pushed his head away gently, moving the plate to his knee. Clayton yipped and danced out of range, staring at his hand.

“Shit, sorry, Clayton.” Matthew set his hand back on his knee, chastising himself for touching without warning. “My apologies.”

Clayton stepped closer, tail wagging slowly from side to side and ears forward. He sniffed Matthew’s hand, then looked up at Matthew, wagging his tail again. Matthew raised his hand slowly, holding his breath until Clayton nudged his head underneath his fingers, encouraging Matthew to pet the soft fur on his head.

Matthew exhaled, a slow grin curling across his face as Clayton watched him, letting Matthew gently stroke his fur.

“Oh. Thank you, son. You gettin’ more comfortable, huh?” Matthew asked softly, stroking Clayton’s fur. Clayton yapped quietly, sniffing Matthew’s shirt sleeve and giving his hand a lick, then letting Matthew’s hand run down his shoulder. He glanced at Matthew’s face with a pleading look, then glanced back at his plate, thumping his tail once. Matthew laughed. 

“Lemme take another bite then it’s yours,” Matthew promised. Clayton’s tail thumped twice, then he shifted away, curling up in a ball and watching as Matthew started in on his pie again.

“It’s apple,” Matthew said, trying not to let his giddiness at being able to pet the other shifter show. It was such a simple thing, but it said so much about Clayton’s trust in him. “Missus McConnell baked it. I don’t know who told them, but the church ladies have figured out I like pie, so now I get one almost every Sunday.”

He took another generous bite of the pie, then set the plate on the ground, sliding it towards Clayton. Clayton sniffed his hand as soon as it was close enough, licked his knuckles in thanks, then started in on the pie.

“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure if they’re just trying to keep me well fed or if the eligible young women are trying to woo me,” he said with a laugh. “They’re wasting their time, but I ain’t complaining.”

Clayton snorted, barely pausing as he licked the plate clean. Matthew leaned back on his hands, watching him eat and smiling.

“You’re always welcome here for pie, or dinner, or if you just need somewhere warm,” he said after Clayton sat back up, licking his jowels. “Just wanted you to know.”

Clayton’s tail thumped in acknowledgement.

* * *

That wouldn’t be the last time Matthew heard scratching at his door. Every couple of months Clayton would show up, stay for a few days, then disappear again. It became a routine of sorts, one that Matthew heartily enjoyed. It was nice to have a break from the monotony of his day to day living, to have some companionship to look forward to.

Sometimes he wondered where Clayton lived, where he stored his belongings (and whether he even had any). Matthew considered himself lucky; for all his running, for all his hiding, he’d always had the safety of staying on his human feet, and the luck of having no one know his shifted form. It was a death sentence, once those words made it onto the bounty poster; shifters were worth more, and everyone knew it. It made Matthew feel protective, and all he wanted to do was keep his coyote friend safe. But he couldn’t, not really. So he made him food, and kept him company, and treasured the connection that continued to grow.

The next time Clayton came for dinner, he let Matthew pet him again; the time after that, he curled up on the ground beside him, a solid line of warmth against Matthew’s leg. Matthew, bundled in a scarf and hat to ward off the chill of the air, had never felt so warm.

* * *

It was late January when Matthew caught a cold. It wasn’t often that he was sick, as was the case with most shifters, and his cold was certainly milder than whatever was sweeping it’s way through the town. But it was enough that he was stuffed up and groggy, exhaustion weighing down his limbs and slowing his thoughts. He’d spent most of the day curled up in bed, and was contemplating dragging himself to the kitchen for some bread and tea when he heard yipping outside the door.

He shoved himself out of bed and staggered to the door, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders before he opened it to peer outside. Sure enough, Clayton was there, a fine dusting of snow on his black coat as he wagged his tail in greeting.

“Hello, Clay,” Matthew said, face breaking into a grin. Cold air rushed into the room and he shuddered, wrapping the blanket harder around himself, then breaking into a flurry of sneezes. Clayton’s tail fell still as Matthew sagged against the doorframe, then wiped his nose on the blanket when the sneezing passed.

“Oh, pardon me. I’m afraid I can’t come out and visit,” he said in a stuffy voice. “I’m a bit sick.”

Clayton cocked his head, then stepped closer, sniffing the hand Matthew held out.

“Sorry. Maybe I could come out in a couple days if you come back.” Matthew looked behind him, squinting in the direction of the kitchen. “I probably have some bread if you’re hungry though –“

Clayton yipped, then a wet, furry body was shoving past his knees and through the door. Matthew watched in bewilderment as Clayton shook vigorously, snow and water flying from his coat, then wagged his tail and looked at Matthew expectantly.

“Oh. Alright! That’s – that’s wonderful, of course you’re welcome in anytime.” Matthew tried not to show how delighted he was by this new development, and shut the door behind him, turning the lock. “Just tell me if you want to leave, I’d leave it unlocked but it lets in an awful draft.”

Once the door was locked he turned and wandered towards the kitchen. Clayton followed behind, claws clicking on the hardwood floor. Matthew stepped past the open door to his bedroom, already wracking his foggy brain for food he could give to his friend. “I’ve got butter too, get some fat on your bones, and maybe some jam –“

A tug on his blanket stopped him. When he turned to look Clayton had slipped closer, and had seized Matthew’s blanket in his teeth. He tugged Matthew in the direction of the bedroom, wagging his tail slowly as Matthew looked at him in bewilderment.

“Oh.” Matthew frowned. “You don’t want food?” Clayton tugged again, harder, until Matthew stumbled after him. He pulled, then pushed and prodded until Matthew was sitting on the bed again, staring groggily down at him. 

“You’re much stronger than you look, for such a small critter,” Matthew said with a smile. He sneezed again, harder than before, a fit that left his head fuzzy and full. When he stopped and re-focused on Clayton, the coyote had an offended look on his face. Matthew burst out laughing.

“Sorry, son, you’re just… small. Compared to wolves, I guess.”

Clayton stepped closer and let Matthew run his hand over his soft fur. He was still whip-thin, but less boney than he’d been when Matthew had first met him. He leaned into Matthew’s leg, a solid warmth through his sleep-clothes.

“I know a lot more of them,” Matthew said groggily, trying to keep his eyes open. _Fuck,_ he was exhausted. A cold nose prodded at his hand, then teeth gently grasped his shirt sleeve. Clayton tugged, looking at him meaningfully until Matthew gave in and lay down.

“You’re pushier than I thought you’d be too.” Matthew curled up on his side and dragged another blanket up over him. He patted the bed as he closed his eyes. “Do you wanna come up? You’re welcome.”

He was almost asleep when claws clacked again, the bed depressing under the weight of a furry body that scrambled over him, curling up at his back, a solid warmth through the blankets.

“Good boy,” Matthew mumbled. He groped behind him, patting blindly at Clayton’s soft fur. Clayton licked his hand and Matthew smiled, dragging his arm back under the blanket. And then he fell asleep, sharing his bed for the first time in years.

* * *

The smell of soup cooking drew him from slumber. He floated in the pleasant smell, content and warm, pointedly ignoring the scratchiness of his throat and the fuzziness of his head. Then he heard the sound of a spoon clattering, followed by a muffled curse. And abruptly he remembered that he lived alone.

He stumbled out of bed, groping in his nightstand for the pistol he still kept loaded, then crept out of the bedroom. He tried to go slow, to be quiet, to surprise whoever the fuck was in his home -

He spun into the kitchen, pistol at the ready, teeth bared.

“Who the _fuck_ -“ the words died on his lips as the man in his kitchen startled violently, flinching away and holding a spoon out in front of him like it was a weapon. Matthew _knew_ that face, it had been seared into his mind since he first saw it on a wanted poster so long ago. The gun fell to his side. It was _Clayton._ He was shorter than Matthew and far too skinny, with long dark hair that just dusted his shoulders and brilliant blue eyes. And oh, _hell._

“You’re wearing my clothes,” Matthew said dumbly.

And he was, there was no other explanation for it. Clayton was swimming in the trousers and shirt he must have filched from Matthew’s dresser. Socked feet poked out from where the too-long trousers pooled around his ankles. The sagging trousers were barely held up by the suspenders looped over his shoulders, waist band loose and clearly meant for a bigger man. He was in just his shirt-sleeves, the buttons to the baggy white shirt not even done up all the way, sleeves rolled hastily to his elbows. Something about it, about seeing him in Matthew's clothes, sparked something possessive and incredibly affectionate in Matthew's chest. And for the first time in what felt like years, Matthew _wanted_.

Clayton flinched at his words, still clutching the spoon like he would stab Matthew with it if he came too close.

“I’m sorry, I –“ Clayton’s voice broke. His voice was rough, like he hadn’t spoken in a while, but carried a beautiful Texan drawl. He swallowed, drawing Matthew’s eyes to his throat. “I can go.”

Matthew broke his stare, shaking his head at himself. “Oh, no, I’m sorry. Lord, where are my manners.”

He set the gun on the table carefully, then stepped forward and held out his hand, smiling and hoping he looked nonthreatening. He didn’t think it would be hard to achieve when he was sleep-mussed and wrapped in a blanket, but it was times like these that made him aware of his own size. “Matthew. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Again.”

“Clayton.” Clayton shook his hand, lips quirking up into a tiny smile. His hand was rough and calloused, broader than Matthew would have expected, and _cold_. Matthew frowned down at it.

“Are you warm enough? I can stoke the stove…”

Clayton drew away, arching an eyebrow as he took a step back, putting space between them. “I ain’t the sick one.”

Matthew’s cold chose that moment to make itself known, a flurry of sneezes escaping him. He wavered when he was done, until he was gently pushed down into a kitchen chair.

“Bless you,” Clayton muttered. His brow wrinkled. “You alright there Father?”

Matthew’s smile came out more like a grimace. “Just fine.” He sneezed again, then pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “Ah, pardon me. It’s just this damned cold.”

When he opened his eyes again Clayton slid a bowl of soup onto the table in front of him. His nose was running again and he could no longer smell it, but it looked _delicious_. Steaming hot, bits of meat and vegetables floating in a golden broth.

“You made soup?” Matthew beamed, looking from the soup to Clayton.

Clayton flushed and crossed back to the far side of the kitchen, crossing his arms and ducking his head. “It ain’t much. And I owe you, so.”

“You don’t owe me at all,” Matthew protested. “I’m always happy to help, ain’t no need to repay me. Alright?” Clayton fidgeted and looked away, then gave a tight nod. Matthew nodded to the other chair. “Why don’t you get yourself a bowl and sit?”

Clayton exhaled. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

He let himself watch Clayton for a few short seconds, noting the fluidity of his movements, the grace that he assumed came from the coyote hidden inside. He knew that others had seen the same thing in him, but he’d made a concerted effort to hide the shifter away. It was safest that way, and it remained a secret that provided the best escape if… if he ever needed it.

He turned back to his bowl before Clayton could notice, not wanting to make him more uncomfortable than he already was. He took a sip of soup, eyes falling shut in bliss at the taste. “My word, this is amazing.” When he looked back up, Clayton had an odd look on his face, one that quickly disappeared under Matthew’s gaze. “You’re quite the cook, Mister Clayton!”

Clayton shrugged, hair falling into his face as he hunched over his bowl. “Soup ain’t hard.”

“It’s still a wonderful treat,” Matthew said. He looked over at the counter. “Do you want bread, too? Something more filling for you?”

Clayton shook his head. “Nah, this is fine. I don’t need much.”

Matthew frowned. “Nonsense. Don’t shifters need more food?” He forced himself out of his seat and shuffled over to the counter, digging the remainder of a loaf of bread out of the breadbox and butter out of the larder. He cut two thick slices, set them on a plate, and carried it to the table with the butter. He slid it across the table at Clayton, who was staring at him with those wide blue eyes. “Eat.”

Clayton’s lips quirked up in another small smile, and Matthew found himself beaming in response. Then they ate. Matthew focused back on his bowl, falling into the simple bliss of eating good soup, hot and fresh, when one felt like shit on a cold winter’s day. It was soothing, and he felt some of the pull in his chest ease as he ate. Clayton, he noticed, still ate quickly even in this form. He’d torn his bread into chunks and was dipping it in his soup, his arm wrapped protectively around the bowl **.** For all his apparent focus on the meal, Matthew got the sense that he was still highly aware of Matthew and his every move.

_He’s jumpy. I would be too, I suppose._

It felt like barely any time had passed before Clayton emptied his bowl. He sat and fidgeted with it while Matthew finished up his soup, looking more and more uncomfortable with each passing moment. 

“I should shift back,” he muttered, shoved his chair back and standing up. “I don’t wanna burden you.”

Matthew leaned over the table and caught his wrist before he could move away. Clayton froze at the touch, staring down at his hand, then at Matthew's face.

“Stay?” Matthew asked softly. “I don’t… don’t get too many visitors, out here.”

Clayton swallowed, then nodded, ducking his head and breaking eye contact. “Alright,” he muttered. He sank back into his seat, then gave a weak smile. “Ain’t much in the way of company though.”

Matthew smiled. “Neither am I,” he confessed. He stood, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, and crossed over to the stove. “Let me put on the kettle, we can have some tea.”

Things lulled, for a minute or two, while Matthew filled the kettle and set it on the stove and tucked his gun away in the spare cupboard. He sat down and noticed that Clayton was fidgeting again, pulling at his shirt collar and running a hand through his hair, looking anxious and awkward and unsure of what to do. So Matthew started talking. Babbling, more accurately, just like he did when Clayton was in coyote form. He told him the new church gossip, shaking his head at the silly squabbles between his congregation while he waited for the kettle to boil. And Clayton listened, humming in response every now and then, shoulders gradually relaxing more and more.

It wasn’t hard to talk about his life; Matthew had been doing it for a while now, whenever Clayton came to visit. The novelty of having him in human form hardly changed things at all. Oh, he had questions he wanted to ask, and things he wanted to know, a burning curiosity about the other man that had been sparked in his chest since he first learned the coyote lurking in his bushes was a shifter, and an outlaw to boot. But he had an inkling that if he pushed, Clayton would bolt, and that was the last thing he wanted to happen. So he talked about himself, treasuring each response he received, be it a hint of laughter, that tiny small, or even just the way Clayton’s tension eased the longer he went on.

After the kettle whistled he made them both tea, digging out leftover winter fruit pie and serving them both a slice. He wasn’t hungry, not anymore, but the tiny smile that crossed Clayton’s face made it ever so worth it. 

“You don’t need to feed me so much,” Clayton said quietly as he paused to sip his tea. He fidgeted with his fork, then made eye contact. “I’ve been living on less for a long time.”

Matthew smiled at him gently, calling all his softness into place. It wasn’t a stretch to do; something about this man made him want to be tender, to be gentle. “Just because you’re used to less ain’t a reason not to feed you more.”

Clayton broke eye contact and nodded, short and harsh.

“Besides,” Matthew added. “That pie won’t stay good forever, so you may as well help me eat it. The Lord has given to me in abundance, and it is my joy to share in that wealth, however simple it may be.”

Matthew cupped his tea to his chest, trying to battle the fresh wave of exhaustion that swept over him as Clayton ate. Clayton looked up at him and frowned.

“You should go back to bed,” he said, sitting back in his chair and leaving the pie. He nodded at the stack of dishes on the counter. “I’ll clean up.”

Matthew shook his head. _If I go to bed, you’ll be gone when I wake up. I know you will._ “I’m fine,” he said, smothering a yawn.

Clayton snorted. “Right.” His face softened as he looked at Matthew. “Go sleep. You need it.”

Matthew sighed. _Of course you’d shift when I’m too sick to visit for long_. “Alright.” He looked at Clayton seriously. “If you’re not here when I wake up… I’m glad you stopped by. It was nice to meet you, proper-like.”

Clayton gave him a small smile. “Likewise.”

Matthew pushed himself to standing, then waved at the larder. “Take anything you need, I’ve got more than enough to make due.”

He shuffled towards the door, hiking the blanket up around his shoulders. Clayton’s voice called him back.

“Hey, preacher…”

Matthew turned around, cocking his head to the side. Clayton flushed and fidgeted with his fork.

“Thanks. For… for all of this. It’s appreciated.”

“You’re welcome,” Matthew said softly. “You’re always welcome, here.”

Clayton nodded, and Matthew left the room. He curled up in bed, satisfied and warm, in heart and soul. He fell asleep in mere minutes.

* * *

When he woke Clayton was gone. The soup was in the larder, the pie was back in its tin, but the bread was gone. The clothes he’d borrowed were folded neatly and stacked on the kitchen table, a note folded on top of them. 

“Thanks. Feel better.”

* * *

Two days after Clayton’s visit, Matthew noticed that the feeling of _pack_ that been steadily growing with the other shifter had solidified. He’d been telling himself for months that the connection wasn’t there, wasn’t real, didn’t matter, but it was undeniable now. He was torn between worry (becoming pack with a near stranger, his mother would have scolded him to hell and back for such foolishness) and gleeful, giddy joy, the kind that made him want to howl at the moon and God and whoever else was listening. It was almost, _almost_ enough to make him shift, to make him head off into the night and find Clayton so they could run together. Almost, but not quite. Matthew tucked the knowledge away, treasuring the safety, the security, the comfort that came with having _someone_. That Clayton didn’t even know he was a shifter was inconsequential. Besides, he didn’t even know if coyotes _had_ packs in the same way that wolves did. It didn’t matter either way; the bond was there, and now Matthew was his.

_Pack. Clayton is **pack**. _

* * *

The two weeks after he found Clayton in his kitchen making soup were the hardest and the loneliest since he’d moved to this little town (since long before that, really). Matthew felt his absence keenly, the disappearance of his new pack-mate making his life all the more lonesome. He threw himself into his work, visiting his congregation between snowstorms, reading the Bible with renewed vigour, fixing the parts of the church that he could. If he couldn’t dwell in the delight of his pack, then he would build his church and his community and make it strong, make it faithful, make it full. It never quite took away the loneliness, but it made him ruminate on it less, at least for a little while.

But then one evening two weeks later, he heard a scratch at the door, and the loneliness fled in an instant.

_He came back._

* * *

“You know,” Matthew said one evening, a month and a half after Clayton first entered his home, long since back in his four-legged form. “You’re welcome to borrow clothing, if you want.”

He was sitting on his loveseat, curled up in a blanket to ward off the March chill. Clayton was beside him, curled up on the seat with his head buried in his tail. He’d been back a few times since Matthew was sick, pushing his way past Matthew’s legs as soon as he opened the door. He always stayed in his shifted form, never sneaking his way into Matthew’s rooms to borrow clothes or indicating that he’d want to shift in any way. Matthew had merely been glad that he trusted him enough to stay inside again, and welcomed the company that didn’t require him to sit out in the cold. Even better, Clayton had started sitting with Matthew after they ate, curled up contentedly beside him while Matthew talked or read or prepared his sermons, often staying for hours at a time. Matthew’s home was even starting to carry faint traces of Clayton’s scent, the musk and pine needles and coyote that clung to him. And as his scent deepened, seeping into the space, the feeling of pack, of Clayton _belonging_ there intensified along with it.

“Or… or you can leave things here. I don’t know where you stay, when you’re not here. But you’re always welcome to keep anything here you want. Clothes, guns, whatever you need. For if you’re visiting, or if you just need a safe place.”

Clayton picked up his head and looked at him, cocking his head to the side. His ears didn’t flatten in the way that often signified disagreement or discomfort, but his tail didn’t wag either. Matthew smiled weakly.

“It was just a thought. I won’t be offended if you don’t take me up on it.”

* * *

Two weeks later he opened the door to find Clayton waiting patiently, holding one end of a small oilskin satchel. He thumped his tail, then trotted past him when Matthew held the door open.

“Now what did you bring?” Matthew asked. Clayton ignored him, clicking his way into Matthew’s bedroom and shoving it shut with his head before Matthew could follow. Matthew laughed, and went into the kitchen, shaking his head. He trusted Clayton enough to not worry about it, to focus back on the stew that was simmering on the stove.

A few minutes later slow footsteps announced Clayton’s return. Matthew turned and beamed as he slipped through the doorway, in human form for the first time since Matthew had been sick. He was dressed down much like Matthew, although he did have a well-worn gun belt looped around his narrow hips, two pistols tucked inside. Matthew was struck again by how handsome he was, although some part of him hoped he’d get to see Clayton in _his_ clothes again someday. Clayton ducked his head and ran a hand through his hair.

“Hope it’s alright that I uh… I took you up on it.” He cleared his throat. “Your offer to keep things here, that is.”

Matthew tried to contain the giddy smile. “That’s more than alright,” he said. “Here, let me clean out a drawer in my dresser for you.”

Clayton flushed even further. “Oh, you don’t have to do that...”

“Well, it’s either that or a cupboard,” Matthew said. “It’d probably be best to not leave your things just sitting out, in case I have any unexpected guests.”

“Unexpected guests other than me?” Clayton asked wrily.

Matthew laughed and shook his head. “You’re not unexpected at all. Or at least, I keep hoping you’ll return.” He missed the flush that swept over Clayton’s face and turned back to the counter, stirring the bowl of batter. “But every now and then one of my congregation stops by, and I’m sure they’d have questions about seeing those pistols just lyin’ around.” He flashed a grin over his shoulder. “But I’ll let you decide if you want a drawer or a cupboard, I’ll clean out a space for you after dinner.”

“Alright.” Clayton hovered in the door, then crossed his arms and leaned against it in what felt like a clear attempt at nonchalance. “You want some help with dinner?”

“Thank you kindly, but I’m doing just fine.” Matthew flashed another smile over his shoulder and picked up the bowl, moving over to the stove. “How do you feel about dumplings?”

* * *

And so it continued. Clayton started coming by more often, and shifting almost every visit, pushing his way past Matthew’s legs to trot into the bedroom and change. One evening he noticed that Clayton had left his guns in the bedroom; he felt the foolish, giddy sort of joy again, the one he hoped that Clayton wouldn’t notice. He said nothing about the changes to their routine, and Clayton didn’t either, but Matthew still found himself proud of the trust they had developed.

Three weeks later the scratch at his door came in the afternoon, filling Matthew with worry as he hastened towards the door. Instead of the injury he was expecting, Clayton held a freshly killed chicken in his mouth, which he dropped on Matthew’s floor with a yip.

“Did you bring that for me?” Matthew asked delightedly. Clayton yipped, dancing a circle around his feet, then skittered past him and into the bedroom. Matthew laughed and went into the kitchen, lighting the stove and setting a pot on to boil. “You’re here early,” he called. “I normally don’t see you while it’s still light out.”

“It was my turn to bring dinner,” Clayton called back. A minute later he padded into the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear. “I figure the least good ole’ farmer White can do for shootin’ me in the ass is provide us with a chicken.”

Matthew shook his head and laughed. “Lord, he’s going to be _furious_.”

“You should’ve seen it. I swear, he was spittin’ nails.” Clayton walked over and bumped his shoulder against Matthew’s affectionately.

“It’s certainly put you in a good mood,” Matthew said, smiling as the other man ducked his head, grin still plastered across his face.

“Yeah, yeah it did. A run like that… it’s real fun.” He nodded at the pantry. “We roastin’ it? I could get some potatoes ready to go while you scald it? Then I can help with the pluckin’.”

“That sounds mighty fine.” Matthew watched as Clayton went to the cupboard, marveling at the difference between this Clayton and the skittish man he’d found in his kitchen mere months before. He turned back to the stove, and tried to settle his heart.

* * *

“Why didn’t you turn me in, way back then?” Clayton asked curiously one evening, sitting by Matthew’s fire with a glass of whiskey. “I know you saw how much I’m… how much my bounty is worth.” He said the words in his usual even drawl, but Matthew caught the near slip, the downward twist to his mouth as he spoke.

“I don’t have any interest in turning in men for bounties,” Matthew said softly. “That’s not what the Lord has called me to do.”

Clayton laughed, a sharp, bitter thing, and Matthew worried he’d said something wrong. “What,” Clayton asked. “The Lord done ask you to care for murderers like me?”

“Yes,” Matthew said simply. He looked at the fire and shook his head. “’Do unto others what you would have them do unto you’, is what the good book says. It would be a bit hypocritical of me to treat someone poorly for whatever wrongs they may have committed.”

Things fall silent but for the crackling of the fire. Matthew’s worry faded, lulled into the radiating warmth and the lull of the flames. There was a simplicity to sitting by a fire with someone, a comfort he was hesitant to name. When Clayton interrupted his voice was soft, hushed, barely audible over the pop and spark of the wood.

“I didn’t kill who they say I did,” Clayton said. When Matthew turned to look at him Clayton was avoiding his gaze, body held tensely as though prepared to defend himself. It contradicted the quiet of his voice, the soft uttering of truth in this space that felt so fragile. “I was there, but I didn’t… it wasn’t me.”

“You were framed,” Matthew said, just as soft, an offer of safety in this as in all things. “Oh, son, I’m sorry.”

Clayton looked at him then, brow wrinkling. “That’s it? You don’t want…” he trailed off, looking unsure of the missing details he was making all the more obvious. His shoulders drew up around his neck, and Matthew wondered how many times he’d been accused of lying, if he’d ever even had the chance to say this precious secret.

Matthew smiled, and shook his head. He focused back on the tea in his hands, the spill of warmth through the thin tin mug. “You can tell me if you’d like. But I don’t need to know more to believe that what you’re saying is true.”

Clayton exhaled, and Matthew watched him ease back into the sofa out of the corner of his eye. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Matthew looked at him and nodded, let himself smile slow and easy-like, as gentle as the moment. Clayton studied his face, then smiled back, thin lips quirking up at the edge of his mouth. Firelight played across the contours of his face, and Matthew had never wanted to kiss someone more.

(He didn’t, because it would not feel right to use this moment of vulnerability and trust for his own selfish wants, to feed his own foolish heart. Clayton _trusted_ him, at least in this, and that was more precious than any kiss.)

“You’re welcome.”

* * *

He fell in love slowly, or quickly, depending on your point of view. It _felt_ slow, like the steady build of a room in his heart, bricks laid with every passing day. He didn’t even notice at first, too caught up in the thrill of _pack_ , in the company that Clayton brought to his life. But then he caught Clayton’s smile one evening, one of the ones that felt rare and precious and meant only for him, and he knew that he was in deeper than he’d ever believed he could be. 

And the crux of it all was that he was fine with it, with falling in love with this skittish man who stumbled his way into Matthew’s life. Even if Clayton left, if he broke the bond of pack that had been built and never returned, it felt like this will have been worth it, like it will have _meant_ something.

_It’s been a long time since my love has been of worth._

****

* * *

Winter passed into spring, and brought with it new life. Matthew planted a garden, and tended the flowers, and enjoyed the feel of the dirt beneath his palms and the sun on his face. He poured his heart into the little plot of land, because if he didn’t he would have poured it out onto Clayton, and he’d really rather not scare him off by declaring his love. It was too soon, or that was what he told himself. _You’ve barely even known him six months._

Clayton never told him where he went when he disappeared, and Matthew never asked. He also never stayed the night, never gave Matthew the opportunity to blurt out that he should share his bed. ( _And maybe that’s for the better,_ Matthew thought.)

* * *

“I might be gone for a little while,” Clayton said one late spring evening. He ducked his head, playing with his plate. “A month, maybe two.”

“Alright,” Matthew said. He nodded at the loaf of bread still on the counter. “Want food for the road?”

Clayton looked up at him, a smile slowly curling its way across his face. He shook his head. “Thank you but no.” He paused, and a look Matthew couldn’t quite interpret flashed across his face. “I’ll have enough to carry, I have to take my guns and such.”

 _Ah. A job._ Matthew nodded his head and smiled back. “Ah, yes, that makes sense.”

Clayton eyed him, then looked relieved when he asked no further questions. But later that evening, when Clayton was heading into the bedroom to shift back and leave, Matthew couldn’t help but grab his hand, heart in his throat.

“Stay safe?” he asked.

Clayton quirked another of his small, beautiful smiles, and squeezed his hand, just once. Matthew’s heart flipped.

“I’ll try.”

Within minutes Clayton was back on four legs and out the door, heading off for whatever job or duty required him and his guns. Matthew stepped out into the moonlight with him and crouches down to say goodbye, running his hand gently through Clayton's fur. Clayton leaned into his touch, then turned those bright blue eyes to his face.

“I’ll miss you,” Matthew murmured. “Come back, alright?”

Clayton yipped and thudded his tail. He dropped the bag he was carrying and nudged past Matthew's arm, pushing his way into his lap and licking him across the cheek. Then he was gone, grabbing his little satchel and trotting off into the night as Matthew stared after him, stunned, as his hand rose slowly to touch his cheek. 

Oh. _Oh._

(He spent the next three weeks convincing himself it was nothing. It never quite worked.)

* * *

Matthew wandered up and down the aisles of Springer’s General Store, looking at the goods and trinkets for sale. He rubbed the soft cotton of a periwinkle blue shirt between his fingers and wondered if it would fit Clayton, if he would even wear it. It was the prettiest blue, nearly the colour of Clayton’s eyes, and Matthew wondered if it would be too soon to give the other man a gift.

_If he even comes back._

It was late-August, and he hadn’t seen Clayton in nearly two months. He’d been trying to keep his mind off the other man, but it rarely worked; ever since the goddamn – the goddamn _kiss_ that Clayton had given him when he left. He reminded himself frequently that a lick on the cheek wasn’t a kiss, not exactly, that things were sometimes different when you were shifted, that affection could be more casual, and could mean less.

The other part of his mind insisted that it wasn’t _that_ casual. Especially since he was sure Clayton believed him to be human, and would presumably read into it more. Kisses meant so _much_ to humans, and every shifter knew that. At the very least it was a good sign that Clayton saw him as pack, too; and there was always the possibility of it being more. So here he was, looking at things he didn’t need, and thinking of Clayton at every turn. _Of courting him_ , his mind supplied. He told it to hush, and mentally counted his money.

He picked up the shirt and tucked it under his arm, then wandered on, pausing at the tiny glass case with jewelry laid inside. _Oh._ There was a locket there, a simple silver oval on a delicate chain. He wondered how it would look around Clayton’s neck. He wondered what he would put inside.

“I need another _goddamn_ trap!”

Matthew froze as the door slammed shut as Jeb White stormed into the General Store, shotgun slung over his shoulder. Harold Springer, the proprietor of the little store, laughed as Jeb stomped up to the counter and slammed his hand on the counter.

“That prairie wolf get away on you again?”

“Goddamn _coyotes_ ,” Jeb snarled. Matthew’s heart started pounding in his chest as his hands unconsciously clenched into fists. Jeb continued, nearly spitting with rage. “The trap I’d set is _gone,_ and all this fucking rain has wiped any trail it mighta left behind. It’s that _fucking_ black one, too, I know it. Did I tell you I saw it break into my henhouse in the –“

“In the middle of the goddamn day,” Harold interrupted, shaking his head. “Yeah, you done told me. I still don’t know why you think that one’s a shifter though, and an outlaw to boot.”

“It’s too fucking smart,” Jeb spat. “Ain’t ever had a coyote quite so bold, neither. It’s out to get me Harold, I fucking know it.”

Harold raised his eyebrow. “Them prairie wolves are bold as brass, you sure you ain’t just pissed because he ate your prized hen?”

Jeb scowled. “You gonna get me another hunting trap or not?”

Harold shrugged and went into the back. “You gonna try and line this one with silver, too?”

“Damn straight I am,” Jeb muttered. He started rifling through the handful of bills he pulled from his pocket. “It’ll be worth it when I turn in that fucking bounty. You seen how much bounties on shifters are worth. Besides, it ain’t like Meredith’s mother’s silver is doin’ anything else just sittin’ around. May as well burn a fucking shifter with it.”

Matthew’s stomach churned. _He didn’t._

“You linin’ your traps with silver, Mister White?” he heard himself ask, voice measured and low. Jeb startled, finally seeming to notice Matthew standing a mere two feet away.

“Shit, Reverend, you hide easy for such a big fucker.” Jeb grinned, and it did nothing to ease the rage brewing in Matthew’s chest. “Yeah, gonna catch me a shifter. Maybe if I play my cards right I can get me a bounty _and_ keep his pelt. Coyote fur’s on the rise, these days.”

Matthew turned to him, straightening to his full height. “I would encourage you to consider,” he drawled, slow and with the full weight of his size behind his words. “If that is a _Christian_ way to act, Mister White.”

Jeb sneered. “No offense Reverend, but I don’t give a shit if it’s Christian or not. That fucker deserves _worse_ for what he done.” He spat on the floor. “Ain’t like a shifter deserves anything better anyhow. They deserve silver, every last one of ‘em.”

Matthew set the pretty blue shirt down on the counter. “I pray,” he said, “that you learn about _grace_ and _mercy_ , Mister White. It would do you well to remember that justice belongs to the Lord.” He loomed closer, shifting his weight until Jeb’s face blanched. “For that poor creature’s sake, as well as yours.”

He turned on his heel, and walked out the door.

* * *

Matthew barely restrained himself from running the entire way back to the Church. Mud sucked at his shoes, and although he tried to catch any scent of blood on the way home, all he found was the scent of rain and wet earth. When he was a quarter mile from the Church, and beyond the easy gaze of any of the towns folk, he broke into a run. 

“Oh, God, _please_ -”

His heart sunk when he saw no pawprints outside his doorway, and no other sign that Clayton had been about. Thunder cracked overhead, and light raindrops started to fall, pattering on his hat and coat. He rushed around the corner, then knelt at the mouth of the rosebushes, ignoring the squelch of mud under his knees.

“Clayton?” Matthew knelt at the bushes and peered inside, trying to catch a glimpse of his friend. “Are you here? Can you come out? C’mon, please, tell me you’re safe, that you’re _here_ -“

He shoved his arm into the bushes, reaching back as far as he could and finding only thorns. “Lord, please let him be alright –“ he shoved at the bushes, cursing the hiding place he’d created, and the thick foliage that hid everything inside from vide. Thorns caught at his coat, his hand, slowing his movement.

“Fuck. _Fuck.”_

Matthew lay flat on his stomach, mud sticking to his palms and seeping into his clothing, and peered into the darkness. He couldn’t see _anything_ , not in this form, not with his weaker human eyes. He cursed again, shoving at the brambles. Rain fell harder, rivulets running down his hat, fat drops spattering his clothing. Lightning lit the sky some few miles away, thunder rumbling soon after.

Nothing met his nose but the scent of fresh earth and roses. Even the stale, faint trace of Clayton’s scent from before was gone, worn away by time and new growth.

 _He’s not here._ **_Fuck._**

There was only one option for finding him, especially with the rain now pattering down around him. He needed the heightened senses that his wolf form provided, the keen nose and sharp eyes and loping run that covered miles and miles with ease.

_It’s time. I **have** to._

Matthew ran back to the house, unlocking the door with shaking hands and shoving it open. He stumbled inside and ran to his desk, cursing as he fumbled with the locked bottom drawer. Grabbing the satchel he hadn’t used in years, he stripped as fast as he could then shoved his clothing inside, along with a handful of bandages. He slipped into the kitchen and grabbed his gun, checking for rounds then burying it safely in the oilskin bag. As soon as he was bare he stepped outside and pulled the door shut, dropping his keys into the satchel and clasping it shut. Then he closed his eyes and breathed, focused, allowed himself to slip into the form he hadn’t worn in years. He felt the rain on his fur, felt the mud beneath his paws, and picked up the satchel in his sharp, sharp teeth.

And then he _ran_.

* * *

It wasn’t long before he caught the scent of a familiar coyote on the wind as he ran towards Jeb White’s farm. Every scent was amplified by the rain that was now pouring from the heavens, and he could easily pick up Clayton’s scent, the small thread of something undeniably shifter winding through the scent of the familiar coyote. His senses were so much clearer in this form, everything bolder, brighter, heavier, and more detailed. It was what allowed him to smell the fear, even from so far away; it was what allowed him to smell the iron tang of fresh blood.

He quickened his pace, loping across the muddy ground as rain poured down around him. For once he was grateful for the rain, for the way it obscured the vision of humans, for the way they hid from it indoors. It gave him cover, made it possible to even risk this in the middle of the day. Most humans didn’t carry silver bullets, but it was always a possibility. In the rain, though. In the rain he could focus only on running, on getting there as fast as he could.

_My Clayton, my pack is in danger._

* * *

He found Clayton in the woods, struggling his way up the steep incline of a hill. Or rather, collapsed at the bottom, still but for his heaving sides, his small satchel lying on the ground beside his head. He didn’t seem to notice Matthew’s approach until he was nearly on him. Matthew dropped his satchel and approached, then whined low in his throat in greeting. 

Clayton came to life at the sound, pushing himself to standing on shaking legs, hackles raised and lips curled back in a snarl. He was standing on three legs, one hind leg raised off the ground, the trap dangling from it. Matthew whimpered, ducking his head lower in submission and flattening his ears, hoping Clayton would slow at the obvious attempt to making himself non-threatening. He crept closer, hoping that Clayton would realize who he was, and that the scent of human would cling to him heavy enough for the other shifter to understand. He knew his hope was in vain; the wolf was gone from his scent, when he was in his human form; it had been for years. That was normal, as normal as it was for Clayton, who shifted so frequently, to carry his coyote scent on his human skin.

But Clayton didn’t recognize him, that much was clear. The scent of fear was strong here, intermingling with the blood and the rain. It didn’t help that Matthew was big for a wolf, or so he’d heard, tall and heavy and so much larger than his small coyote friend. It was a fact that Clayton had obviously noticed, and the snarl didn’t leave, just rumbled louder in his throat.

In the split-second before Clayton attacked Matthew had a sudden flash of clarity, a sudden understanding of how terrifying this must be for the coyote. All alone, injured and exhausted, barely able to move, and suddenly a massive wolf was there, determined to approach. And he remembered in that moment that wolves and coyotes are not friends, not historically; that wolves often killed coyotes, and had no reason to help one another.

Clayton’s fangs flashed as he lunged at Matthew, snapping at his throat viciously. Matthew danced out of the way, his own hackles raising unbidden. He moved to the side, and Clayton followed after, snapping at him again. A sharp yelp burst out of Clayton as the trap jerked him to a stop, caught on something and pulling him up short. Shivering, he backed away, whimpering in pain. Lightning flashed, illuminating the woods, and Matthew caught a flash of something bright. And then he saw it, the gleaming shine of silver and sharp metal teeth buried deep in Clayton’s paw.

_The hunting trap._

He circled around Clayton, hoping to see it more clearly, but Clayton jerked around to follow him, snarling as he dared to move closer.

_Fuck this._

Matthew realized what he needed to do, what he should have done as soon as he saw the other shifter. He backed out of Clayton’s reach, sat down, and drew into himself again, willed his form to shift until the wolf had disappeared. He shuddered at the freezing cold rain spattering down on his skin, goosebumps raising as the heat of his fur fled. He blinked at Clayton, eyes adjusting to their human form once more.

Clayton had frozen, ears pinned against his skull and teeth bared. His tail twitched, slowly wagging back and forth, as he sniffed cautiously at the air. Matthew shifted his weight forward and held out a hand, paying no heed to his nakedness.

“Clayton,” he said, soft and low, “sweetheart, it’s _me_ -“

Clayton’s whole body sagged as understanding crept into his eyes. Then he whimpered, quiet and pained, and started limping towards Matthew, dragging the trap behind him. Matthew shuffled to meet him.

“Oh, darling, stop moving…”

Clayton froze again, tail sweeping between his legs as he ducked his head below his shoulders. Matthew’s heart broke at the display, his hands itching to touch and provide some comfort. As soon as he was close enough Clayton licked his fingers then shoved his head under Matthew’s hand, whimpering as Matthew stroked his fur. He was _shaking_ and soaked to the bone, breath coming out in harsh pants, snout covered in blood and flecks of foam. 

“What have you got yourself into this time?” Matthew asked softly. Clayton whined, tail thumping once, then licked nervously at Matthew’s wrist. Matthew crooned and cupped his head with both hands, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I know, I know. Wait here a moment, let me put on some clothes, then we’ll get it off. Okay?”

Matthew waited a beat until Clayton thumped his tail again, then stood and ran back to the satchel he’d dropped. Despite his affirmation to the plan, Clayton immediately started whining and struggling to follow him. Matthew’s heart broke at the sounds, and he raced back as soon as he’d snagged it, crouching down beside Clayton and digging into the bag. Clayton wiggled as close as he could, pressing himself against Matthew’s side and shaking.

“I know, I know,” Matthew said, running a hand over Clayton’s back. He tugged on his smalls and his undershirt, cursing the rain and mud that quickly soaked the thin cloth. As soon as he was somewhat clothed Clayton crawled part-way into his lap, nails digging into Matthew’s legs as he pressed himself against his chest. Matthew held him close, wrapping his arms around his skinny canid form and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Thunder cracked overhead, and Clayton shuddered, plastering himself against Matthew. 

“You’re alright,” Matthew whispered, running his hands over Clayton’s back. “You’re okay, I’ve got you.”

* * *

They sat in the rain, ignoring the rolling thunder and the flash of lightning in the distance. A forest wasn’t the safest place to be in a storm, but it also wasn’t the worst, and they had no choice in the matter. Matthew held Clayton until some of the shaking subsided, until the fear that he could smell even in human form stopped flooding Clayton’s scent so strongly. Then he stroked Clayton’s head, and touched a hand to his haunch.

“Come on, Clay,” he murmured. “Let me look at that leg, okay? See if we can’t get that off?”

Clayton whimpered again, but let Matthew deposit him gently back on the ground. He curled around and nosed at his paw, clamped tight in the jaws of the trap. Matthew ran a hand down his flank, then curled his fingers around the leg caught in the trap.

His paw was _crushed_. The cruel jaws of the trap had clamped down in the middle of his foot, clearly having caught him as he tried to yank out of the way. Matthew had seen first-hand how fast the traps moved, and knew how impossible they were to evade, especially when hunters went out of their way to disguise the scent of metal and man, or when the creature in question was too focused on getting somewhere to notice it.

Matthew touched the trap with careful fingers, hissing as spark of blistering pain as the silver burned his bare skin. He shook his hand, smiling ruefully at Clayton, who whined and tried to lick his fingers. “Fuck, I forgot about that.” He rummaged in his satchel, digging out the leather gloves he’d worn into town. “God, your poor foot, I can’t even imagine the pain…”

He crooned at Clayton, hoping to sooth him, and ran a hand over his back. “Alright, just hold on for a moment…“ he examined the trap, then wrapped his hand around Clayton’s lower leg. It was a simple foothold trap, easy enough to remove if you had human hands. “Come on, darlin’, let’s set it on the ground.”

He pressed on Clayton’s leg gently until the trap rested on the ground, then set his other hand on the long spring handle. “Wait until it’s open before you pull, all right?”

He pressed the spring down, then tugged at the jaws with his other hand, grimacing at the sickening sound of the metal pulling from Clayton’s flesh. Clayton was whimpering steadily, and yanked his foot away as soon as the jaws were loose, pressing himself into Matthew’s side. 

Matthew let the jaws of the trap spring shut, then threw the trap towards his bag with a shudder. He turned around and gathered Clayton in close, whispering and stroking his fur.

“You’re alright, darlin’. You’re okay. C’mon, let’s get you bandaged up.”

* * *

Matthew bandaged Clayton’s paw best he could in the rain, Clayton nosing at his hands the entire time, and flinching when Matthew pulled too tight. The paw was bloody and silver-burnt, and Matthew wished he’d carried painkillers, or anything that would help. It was clear that Clayton wouldn’t be walking on it for quite some time.

“Will you let me carry you home?” Matthew asked as he worked. “It might be the best option. It won’t be the most dignified, but it’d probably be easiest on your paw. Or I can shift back, and we can both walk…”

Clayton just looked at him. Matthew smiled and ran his fingers through the scruff of wet fur around his neck. “How about this. Yip if you’ll let me carry you.” Clayton hesitated, then yipped once. Matthew nodded, then dug into his bag for the rest of his clothing. “Alright, let me get dressed.”

He pulled on the rest of his clothing while Clayton huddled in a ball at his feet. He slung both of their satchels across his body, shoving the accursed trap in his with a scowl. Then he crouched in the mud and wet leaves, dug under Clayton’s body, and scooped the pliant coyote into his arms.

“I’m sorry, friend,” he said as he strode off in the direction of home. “I’ll go as fast as I can.”

* * *

It was dark by the time they made it home, the relatively short journey there taking far longer now that Matthew was back on two legs. Navigating the wet, rapidly darkening forest was a struggle even with his better-than-human eyesight, and he found himself murmuring frequent apologies to Clayton as he stumbled or jostled him in his arms. And it was _cold,_ the late-summer evening air cooling rapidly and chilling them both to the bone.

But finally the church came into view, and Matthew sent up a prayer of thanks.

_We made it._

* * *

Matthew set Clayton down in the kitchen, then scrambled for as many towels and spare blankets as he could find. He lit a lamp with numb fingers, then the stove, setting the kettle on to boil. Clayton huddled in a ball on the floor, looking miserable.

“I need to look at your paw,” he said, kneeling beside Clayton again. Then he saw the mud on his hands, his clothes, and coating Clayton’s fur. Muddy tracks led across the floor towards the still open front door. “Shit. _Fuck_ , it’ll get infected if we don’t clean up first. Wait here -”

He ran to the door and locked it, feeling more panicked than he had when he first overheard Jeb in the General Store. He stripped out of his coat and hat and boots, quickly scrubbing his hands and arms with soap and cold water in the basin he kept in the kitchen. Then he poured fresh water into another bowl, grabbed a rag, and knelt beside Clayton.

Clayton’s ears pinned back and he looked at Matthew with a baleful expression. Matthew smiled half-heartedly and dipped the cloth in water. “Sorry, Clayton, but I’ve got to –“

As soon as he held the cloth out Clayton scrambled for the doorway, nails scrabbling at the smooth wooden floor as he tried to skitter out of Matthew’s reach. Matthew lunged and grabbed him by the scruff, quickly wrapping an arm around him as Clayton yelped and twisted to snap half-heartedly at his wrist.

“Shh, shh, it’ll be fine,” Matthew soothed, wrangling Clayton into a corner of the kitchen and dragging the bowl and pile of towels and rags with him. “C’mon, sweetheart, you _have_ to get clean. Your paw’s a mess, and I can’t fix it when it’s covered in mud.”

Clayton glowered but settled down, giving Matthew a deeply betrayed look as he picked up a paw and wiped it clean.

“I know, I know. It’ll be over soon, I promise.”

* * *

Once Clayton was as clean as he was going to get and toweled dry, Matthew made a nest of blankets for him to lay on and left him curled up in a ball in the kitchen. He carried a basin of warm water into his bedroom and stripped, wiping away the worst of the mud and grime and re-dressing in a worn set of old clothing. Slipping back into the kitchen, he dumped his muddy clothing in a heap by the door, grimacing at it. _There’s one set of clothing ruined._

He turned back to Clayton, who swiveled his ears to listen, nose tucked into his tail.

“Alright, darlin’,” he said, kneeling by the nest. “Shall we look at that paw of yours?”

* * *

The paw was crushed, that much was clear. The sharp jaws of the trap had punctured through it, snapping at least a few of the delicate bones in Clayton’s paw. Silver burns lined the skin that Matthew could see, blistered and raw. The other shifter was clearly in pain, shivering and trying so very hard to stay still as Matthew tended the wound.

“I think a few bones are broken, darlin’. Normally I’d say you should shift back so we could tend it better, but I think shifting now would do more harm then good,” Matthew said, probing the paw with gentle fingers. Clayton whimpered, and Matthew clucked soothingly. “I know, it hurts. And you’re still bleeding,” he muttered, tilting the lamp he’d brought over to see it more clearly. “I still can’t believe he coated his trap with fucking _silver_.”

Silver, the bane of all shifters, made everything heal slower, and always brought the possibility of silver poisoning. Shifters healed quickly, by human standards, and could walk away from what should have been deadly wounds. But once you got silver involved, all that changed. And Clayton’s paw had been stabbed through with the silver-coated trap for God only knew how long. It had been a miracle that he hadn’t caught an infection with the bullet that brought him to Matthew all those months ago, and Matthew prayed they would be that lucky once more.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said after he’d stitched up as much of Clayton’s paw as he could manage, holding up the tin of salve the coyote had rejected oh so long ago. “Think you might have to put up with the smell, I’m worried it’ll get infected.”

Clayton’s ears pinned back. He sniffed at Matthew’s hand, then looked at him, curling his lips back from his teeth.

“I won’t force you,” Matthew said softly. “But it helps, it does. Especially when there’s silver involved."

Clayton cocked his head, looking at him intently. Then he thumped his tail, licked Matthew’s hand, and laid his head back down in a clear ‘go ahead’.  
  
Matthew smiled and stroked his back. “Thank you.”

* * *

Clayton was falling asleep when Matthew came back into the kitchen after changing into his nightclothes. He’d bundled the coyote in blankets to bring up his temperature, then scraped together a simple meal, barely managing to eat half of it before he found himself falling asleep at the table. He always forgot how much shifting took out of him, especially when he didn’t do it often.

Matthew changed into his sleep clothes, then came back out to check on his patient. Clayton’s ears swiveled towards him when he entered the room, one eye peering open to check on him. He’d refused to eat, but Matthew hadn’t been surprised. Sometimes being in _that_ much pain made eating nigh impossible.

Matthew knelt on the kitchen floor and held out a hand for Clayton to sniff. “I’m going to bed. Do you want to sleep out here, or –“ Matthew hesitated, then forced out the offer. He’d offered it before. Why should this be any different? “Or on the bed with me? There’s room. It’s softer, and might be warmer.”

Clayton lifted his head and looked at him, then thumped his tail and climbed slowly to his feet, shaking off the blankets. He limped his way into the bedroom, then looked at Matthew expectantly.

“Hard to jump with that paw, huh.” Matthew stooped to pick him up, depositing him neatly on the bed. Before he could even turn back the covers Clayton had curled up close to the wall, tucked his nose in his tail, and fallen asleep.

Matthew smiled and crawled into bed, being careful not to disturb his injured guest.

“Goodnight, Clayton,” he whispered. “Lord, bring him health.”

* * *

Despite his prayers and the salve he’d smeared generously on Clayton’s wound, he awoke the next morning to the faint but distinctive smell of infection. He turned on his side, blinking blearily at the coyote still curled up on his bed.

Clayton was shivering. Matthew frowned and dragged his hand out from under the covers, then touched his fur. Clayton barely responded, just flicked his ears at Matthew and stayed in his tight little ball of fur.

_“Shit.”_

* * *

Matthew dressed in a hurry, cursing the rain that was once again pattering on his windows, then coaxed Clayton into the kitchen so he could change his bandages. He hoped that he could also get him to eat and drink something, anything, all too aware of the energy the other shifter would need in order to heal. Clayton was moving slowly, like an old dog with creaky limbs, limping into the kitchen and curling up on the bed of blankets with a whimper. He ignored the bowl of cold stew Matthew set beside him, and barely responded when Matthew stroked his fur.

“Can you at least drink something?” Matthew asked, bringing over a bowl of water. Clayton sniffed at it, took a few half-hearted laps of water, then curled back up. Matthew’s heart sunk. “Oh, darlin’. You ain’t feelin’ well, are you. Let me change the bandage, alright?”

The stench of infection was clearer as soon as he took off the bandage. Clayton’s paw was swollen, the skin under his fur tender and red. Matthew smeared on more salve, then bandaged it carefully. He stroked Clayton on the head and made up his mind.

“I have to go into town, Clayton,” he murmured. “Stay here, alright? I’ll be back soon.”

Clayton twitched his ears, but otherwise didn’t respond. Matthew frowned, fought back the urge to press a kiss to his head, then went to put on his coat.

* * *

Matthew was dripping by the time he stepped into the General Store. The rain hadn’t let up at all, and town was quiet. The bell over the door jangled out his arrival to the nigh-empty store. Harold looked up and nodded in greeting, raising an eyebrow as Matthew shook out his hat.

“Mornin’ Reverend,” he drawled. “It ain’t too often we see you in town this early.”

“Mornin’, Harold,” he said, plastering on his “sheepish preacher” smile. “Just… felt like a walk. Sometimes the wonders of our Lord’s rain can do the soul good. Say, do you happen to have anything for treatin’ ailments? Willow bark, fever tonics, that sort of thing? Or painkillers?”

Harold nodded and pointed down the far aisle. “Down there, on the left.” He raised an eyebrow at Matthew. “You sick, Reverend?”

Matthew laughed sheepishly. “Oh, no, nothing like that. I just… thought it might be good to stock up before the autumn hits. Maybe get something for when my bones ache. You know how it is.”

Harold eyed him up and down. “I suppose.” As Matthew turned away with an awkward smile the other man held up his hand. “Oh, Reverend – before I forget –“ he ducked behind the counter. When he stood, he had the soft blue shirt Matthew had nearly bought the day before in his hands. “I held this for you. If you want it, of course. Didn’t know if you meant to buy it, after you gave that fool Jeb a dressin’ down the other day.”

Matthew flushed. “Ah. Yes, I didn’t mean to leave it just sitting there. Thank you for holding it.” He looked at the tiny glass case, then back at the shirt. _Fuck it._ “Do you, ah, do you have any lockets in gold? My sister, I’ve been meaning to send her something pretty…”

Harold shook his head. “Sorry preacher, I don’t. Got a few rings, and a cross, but no lockets.” He stepped over and unlocked the little case, pulling out the finery on display. “I’ve got a few silver ones though, and this pinchbeck one here.“

Harold held out a small locket that looked almost like gold. Almost, but not quite. It was less delicate than the silver ones, and had a sprig of flowers engraved on the front. Matthew touched it carefully, felt none of the burn of silver against his skin.

“It’s beautiful,” Matthew said. And maybe this wasn’t the moment to be buying a locket, with his – his friend, his whatever Clayton was to him hurt and laid up in bed, but…

_But if not now, then when?_

* * *

Matthew hurried home, and once again found himself fighting the urge to break into a run. The rain had let up some few hours ago, and now he was splashing through the puddles still lying about, already cursing the laundry he’d have to do that evening. He’d been gone longer than he’d intended, pulled to Mrs. Willoughbye’s house by her daughter when she saw him leaving the grocer’s store. She was having… difficulties, and he’d stayed to pray with her at her request. Now he was rushing home, cursing his lack of timekeeping abilities, and praying that Clayton hadn’t worsened in his absence. The protective part of him, the part that was territorial about his home and his pack, was worried. And that part was notoriously hard to calm.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside, calling out to let Clayton know it was only him as he hung up his sopping coat and hat.

“Clayton, I’m back, I’ve brough got you some medicine.”

He stepped into the kitchen and bee-lined for the pile of blankets, coming up short when he realized it was empty. Clayton was gone, although his scent still hung heavily in the air. _Shit._

“Clayton?” Matthew laid his parcels on the table, then peered underneath it. _Not there…_

He padded into the living room and knelt on the floor, peering under the furniture for any sign of the shifter. Nothing. The bedroom was next, and he knelt on the hard wood floor. There, in the corner, curled up deep in the shadows under the bed, was a ball of fur.

“Oh,” he said, a soft smile appearing on his face. “There you are, Clay.” Clayton didn’t respond, and the smile fell. “Clayton?”

Finally Clayton’s eyes slitted open. His tail thumped once, twice.

“You gonna come out?” Matthew asked. Clayton snuffed, then closed his eyes, and Matthew shook his head. He lay down on the floor, pillowing his head on his arms. “I got you medicine? It’ll help you feel better?”

Clayton peered at him again but didn’t move. Matthew frowned and stuck his arm under the bed, palm turned upwards in supplication. He could almost reach him if he shoved his shoulder under the bed, so he did, stretching out his hand until Clayton sniffed and licked his fingers. If he thought his shifting would be received well, he’d have shifted and crawled under with him. But he remembered flashing teeth in the forest, and the fear that had ticked upwards at the sight of his wolf.

“I’ll just go put the kettle on, shall I?” Matthew asked. Clayton blinked at him, and Matthew smiled, trying to keep the worry from his voice. “Alright, darlin’. Give me a few minutes.”

* * *

He’s just pulled the whistling kettle off the stove when he heard a muffled scream from the bedroom, followed by a heavy thud. A _human_ scream.

“ _Clayton?”_

Matthew was in the bedroom in a flash, and found Clayton curled up on the floor and clutching his ankle, face ashen and scrunched up in pain. His foot was bleeding freely, stitches torn out and bandages ripped to shreds, skin swollen and bruised in worrying splotches of dark purple and yellow. Matthew knelt beside him, hands fluttering over his naked shoulder, unsure where to touch.

“Oh my God, are you alright? Why did you shift, your _paw_ –“

He couldn’t imagine the pain of shifting with a broken paw, as shattered bones attempted to re-form themselves into something whole, something human. It must have been _excruciating_ , the pain nigh unbearable.

Clayton caught his hand and clutched it tight, knuckles white and shaking.

“Reverend,” Clayton gasped. “I forgot - forgot to tell you -"

“Shhhh,” Matthew soothed, tugging the blanket off his bed with his free hand and draping it over Clayton’s shivering form. “It can wait, you didn’t need to shift to tell me -"

“No,” Clayton insisted. He moved, face scrunching up again in agony. Matthew smoothed a hand over his already sweaty hair, shushing him again, and Clayton’s head lolled against the ground. “Someone was here,” he gasped. “Someone, someone was -"

“It was probably a parishioner,” Matthew said softly. “They come here sometimes -"

“He smelled like gun oil,” Clayton stressed. “And silver polish, and…” his voice trailed off.

 _Fuck._ “What else?” Matthew breathed. “What else did he smell like?”

“Paper and ink,” Clayton said, voice fading from the urgency of before. His eyes were fever-bright and glassy with pain. “Coffee. Fresh baked bread. And anger. He smelled like anger.”

“The sheriff,” Matthew breathed. He’d smelt that scent before, diluted through his human nose but just as distinctive. “ _Fuck_.”

* * *

Matthew rummaged through his dresser until he found an old nightgown and a pair of drawers he could lend to Clayton. Clayton’s satchel was made from oilskin, and he was sure the clothing tucked inside would be dry despite the rain they’d been running in the day before. But Clayton’s fever was raging, and he reckoned the other man would rather be comfortable in the soft, oversized nightshirt than in his regular clothes. Besides, Matthew’s clothing was clean, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to say the same for Clayton’s, especially after months on the road.

“I should go,” Clayton mumbled as Matthew tugged the nightshirt over his head. “I gotta leave, need to run...”

“You ain’t going nowhere,” Matthew said as he helped Clayton struggle his arms into the sleeves. He was clumsy and weak, skin clammy and beaded with sweat. Matthew could tell he was fighting to stay conscious and coherent. “Not like this, and not with your foot broken either. You’re sick.”

Matthew tugged the nightgown down over Clayton’s skinny form, pursing his lips at the ribs he could see clearly in the other man’s chest. He averted his gaze as he pulled the nightgown down over Clayton’s hips, trying to be as respectful as possible. Shifting his weight, Matthew slid his arms under Clayton’s knees and shoulders and lifted, scooping him neatly onto the bed. In a moment Clayton was covered in blankets, with his mangled foot exposed and propped on a pillow.

Clayton, for his part, looked deeply confused by the turn of events. “What ‘re you doing?” he asked, blinking slowly at Matthew. He tried to push himself up on his elbows, pulling the blankets aside, but Matthew pushed him flat with one hand. Clayton stared at his hand, then back up at Matthew.

“You’re _sick_ ,” Matthew repeated firmly. “And you’re hurt, rather badly if I might add. You need to rest. I’ll go make you some tea, and I got some of Dr. Morse’s Indian Root Pills for the infection. You can take them, then we can see if you can stomach some food.”

Clayton’s fingers curled around his wrist again. He tugged, scowling when Matthew didn’t move his hand. The effect was somewhat diminished by the high flush on his cheeks, the glazed eyes, and the faint scent of sickness hanging in the air.

“You’re going to stay in bed,” Matthew said gently. He caught Clayton’s gaze and held it, keeping his face soft and open. “Don’t worry about the sheriff. I’ll keep you safe. Alright?”

Clayton held his gaze for a brief moment, then his gaze slid away, focusing on some point in the corner. He cleared his throat, but didn’t move his hand, fingers still wrapped around Matthew’s wrist. Finally he nodded.

“Alright.”

* * *

He re-bandaged Clayton’s foot with careful hands, cleaning it carefully with hot water and smearing salve on the broken skin, then re-wrapping it in clean bandages. Clayton stayed silent throughout, gripping the sheets with white-knuckled fists and gritting his teeth, face pale with the pain. Then Matthew made him tea, willow bark mixed with honey until it was a shade too sweet. He slid an arm under Clayton’s back, propped him up enough to drink, holding him close until the cup was drained. Clayton took the Indian Root, but refused the tonic Matthew had offered for the pain, turning his face away from the bottle Matthew held up to his lips. By the time he returned from the kitchen with a bowl of re-heated soup, Clayton was asleep, face drained but for the two spots of colour high on his cheeks.

Matthew sat by his bedside, and set the soup on the dresser, and pondered what he should do. He doubted the sheriff was just making a social call, doubted even further that he was coming for prayer or guidance. No, he was coming for something else. Matthew hadn’t checked the bounty posters in a while. He hoped that hadn’t been a mistake.

* * *

The night passed slowly, as Clayton drifted in and out of sleep, the fever raging through his body. He’d wake, glassy-eyed and barely coherent, barely recognizing where he was. Twice he’d tried to leave, and twice Matthew had pressed him firmly back to the bed, soothing him with his hands and his words. Clayton would talk, mumbling about what had happened, or what could happen, or things that Matthew didn’t understand.

“I tried,” Clayton mumbled, eyes glassy and half-shut. “I tried to take it off, Matthew, but it wouldn’t work…”

“I know,” Matthew said, dipping a cloth in the basin of cool water. “I know you did, you did so well, Clay –“

“Tried to hit the – the lever, the handle, the whatchamacallit –“

“The spring?”

“Yeah,” Clayton mumbled. “Yeah, that. Tried to get it with m’ paws, but ’s hard, workin’ things with yer paws.”

Matthew hummed and wrung the cloth out, then laid it across Clayton’s forehead. He stripped the heavy blanket off of Clayton, grimacing as Clayton immediately shivered and pulled the damp sheets around him. He didn’t protest the lack of heat, merely curled into as small a ball he could and kept up his broken train of thought.

“He was a fucking idiot,” Clayton mumbled. “He put silver on the jaws, but not on the chain. I pulled the stake out of the ground with my teeth.”

Matthew frowned, thinking of the blood on Clayton’s muzzle, the sharp clink of metal on teeth. He hadn’t seen any silver burns or cuts on his face, but they could have healed by now; it’s not like Clayton’s muzzle had been his focus. “You hurt your teeth at all?”

“Just m’ paw,” Clayton slurred, grimacing. “Fuckin’ trap.”

“I know, Clay. Here, drink this.”

Clayton fell asleep soon after, and Matthew lay back on the pallet he’d spread across the floor. Sleep came, but it was uneasy, full of worry and dreams, shadowy things where they ran, and ran, and ran.

* * *

It took another two days for the fever to clear. Clayton slept and woke, and slept and woke, Matthew sitting by his side whenever he wasn’t making tea or soup or scrubbing out the mud from his clothes. The storm raged on, thunder booming overhead as the worst rain they’d had in years turned the little road into a river.

Nervousness had settled into his stomach, the uneasy anticipation of something lurking in the shadows, waiting for them. He kept expecting Sheriff Ainsley to knock on the door at any moment. The rain made it less likely, but one never could tell, and it wasn’t wise to be unprepared. He packed his satchel with whatever he would need most, and filled another with jerky and hardtack, and stored it in the empty cupboard.

He’d run before, and he could run again.

_He would be worth it._

* * *

“If the sheriff comes,” he said to Clayton, in one of the other man’s more lucid moments. “If he comes, I won’t let you take him. Alright?”

Clayton just looked at him. “And if you don’t have a choice?”

“You always have a choice,” Matthew said softly. “It just ain’t always a good one.”

Clayton didn’t respond.

* * *

“I’ve been keeping an eye out for your wanted poster,” Matthew said to him later, guilt and worry tugging at his chest. “I haven’t seen it show up again. Maybe they don’t even -”

“They haven’t forgotten,” Clayton said, looking out the window. “They never forget, when they see a poster like mine.”

* * *

“I know it ain’t nice, sweetheart.” Matthew said, holding out the fever tonic, the one that made Clayton curse him to high heaven. “But you need it, alright?”

He watched as Clayton’s cheeks flushed red at his words. He cocked his head to the side, trying to figure out if it was the fever, and then it clicked. _Sweetheart_. Matthew’s cheeks flushed hot, mirroring Clayton’s. “My, my apologies,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to be improper –“

Clayton quirked a smile and shrugged, and Matthew got the distinct impression he was aiming for nonchalance and failing miserably. “You, uh, you been calling me that a lot lately. Just didn’t think you’d keep it up when I’m…” he gestured at himself, then flushed a deeper red. “Y’know. Human.”

_Oh. Fuck._

“Good Lord, I do apologize,” Matthew said, staring down at the fever tonic in his hand. “I – I have no excuse for such impropriety, but please forgive me, I –“

Clayton plucked the fever tonic from his hand and drained it, then curled up on his side, facing Matthew. Matthew’s babbling cut off when Clayton smiled, loose and easy.

“It’s fine,” he said softly. “I don’t mind.”

* * *

“Shoulda told me you’re a wolf,” Clayton mumbled after Matthew poured another mug of tea down his gullet. “We coulda… coulda run together.”

Matthew gave him a guilty smile. “Probably should have, yes. I… I haven’t shifted in a long time.”  
  
“That’s ok.” Clayton patted his wrist clumsily. “Next time you shift I won’ be so… so angry, I promise.”

“You were scared,” Matthew said. “I’d have lashed out, too.”

“You’re real pretty though,” Clayton yawned. His eyelids were slipping shut, and Matthew was glad that he couldn’t see the brilliant flush sweeping over Matthew’s face. “Big, soft lookin’. Sharp teeth.”

Before Matthew could respond he was asleep again. It took a long while for Matthew to stop smiling.

* * *

“Would you…” Clayton shook his head, turned his face to the window, jaw tight.

“Anything,” Matthew said. “Whatever you need, just ask.”

“Would you shift with me?” Clayton asked. Matthew hesitated, just a moment, and Clayton flushed a bright red and shook his head, ducking behind his hair. “Sorry, it’s stupid –“

Matthew interrupted him before he could shoot the idea down any further. “Of course. I’d be happy to.”

Clayton peered up at him from under the hair flopping over his face, and Matthew smiled. “I said whatever you need,” he said softly. “And I meant it.” He shrugged. “Been a long time since I had someone to shift with, anyhow.” He tapped Clayton’s leg. “Let’s wait for this to heal though, alright?”

Clayton laughs. “Alright, preacher. That I can do.”

* * *

“You should take something for the pain.” Worry coloured his tone as he watched Clayton try and weather the pain. “I bought tonics, even some of that Hamlin’s Wizard Oil –“

“No,” Clayton gasped. “No, I can take it, I don’t need none of that shit.”

“But you don’t need to just take it, darlin’. It’s okay to need the help.”

Clayton didn’t answer, just turned his head away.

* * *

“Thank you,” Clayton whispered the next time he woke. “Coulda left me to rot, but you didn’t.”

Matthew shook his head, then brushed his fingers against Clayton’s wrist on the bed. “No,” he said, “no, I couldn’t have left you. I’ll always come for you, so long as you’ll let me. You’re…”

(“You’re mine,” he wanted to say, “just as I am yours.” But he could’t, not yet. They hadn’t crossed that line, hadn’t spoken the fragile truth building between them.)

“You’re important to me,” he finished.

Clayton’s hand turned over, and tentatively wrapped around his own. Matthew stilled, breath held in anticipation.

“You’re important to me too,” Clayton said softly. He broke the moment with a short laugh. “I still can’t believe you found me.”

Matthew smiled and squeezed his hand. “I’ll always find you,” he promised. “Always.”

Clayton fell asleep with his hand entwined in Matthew’s, while Matthew kept a careful watch. Matthew’s heart was full, and his worries gone, for the moment. This, this felt _right._ He felt whole, in a way he hadn’t in a long time _._

_God, keep him safe, or give me the means to do so myself._

* * *

It was on Saturday morning, three days after he dragged Clatyon home, that the sheriff came calling. Both the fever and the rain had broken that morning, and Clayton had made it out of bed for the first time since the fever set in not half an hour prior, hobbling into the kitchen with Matthew at his elbow, swearing at every step. Matthew settled him in a chair and handed him coffee, then set about making a simple meal of rice and beans.

They were both in the kitchen when the knock sounded, loud and insistent. Clayton startled, face paling and hand flying to his hip, but there was no gun there, just a worn nightshirt. Matthew cursed under his breath, then pulled his gun from the cutlery drawer, handing it to Clayton. Clayton arched an eyebrow but Matthew shook his head, putting a finger to his lips. Another knock sounded, louder this time.

“One moment!” Matthew called.

He hurried from the kitchen, praying that whatever came next wouldn’t lead to a fresh corpse in his kitchen. Taking one deep breath, then another, he opened the door to the scent of gun oil and silver, of fresh coffee and anger.

_Sheriff Ainsley. Of course._

“Sheriff!” Matthew said, plastering on an easy smile. He stepped back and let the door swing open, gesturing inside. “What a pleasant surprise. Come in, son, where it ain’t so hot, and I’ll get you some sweet tea.”

Sheriff Ainsley nodded and stepped inside, taking off his hat and glancing around the room. Matthew felt a spike of anxiety before he remembered that he’d stashed all of Clayton’s things in one of his drawers.

“Hello, Father,” Sheriff Ainsley said. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass. This ain’t a social call.”

“Oh!” Matthew let himself get flustered, like the mild-mannered preacher that the town believed him to be would. “Of course, of course. What ah – what can I help you with?”

The sheriff held out a wanted poster. Matthew’s gut twisted as he took it, and it only eased slightly when he saw Clayton’s striking face on it and not his own. He looked at it, then at the sheriff, creasing his forehead in puzzlement.

“We been getting complaints of a black coyote in these here parts,” the sheriff said, tapping the bottom of the poster, the part that detailed Clayton’s shifted form. His eyes slid to Matthew’s face, watching his reaction intently. “It matches the description of this here wanted man. Thought I’d come and see what you knew about it.”

Matthew frowned and cocked his head to the side. “What I know about it?”

The sheriff shrugged. “You never know if an outlaw’s come lookin’ for refuge in the church.” He slid a hand onto his holster. “Or when some nice preacher man’s bein’ threatened by him.” He peered past Matthew, and Matthew fought the instinct to block the way, to shield Clayton from view. His home, his _pack_ was being threatened, and he had to be smart.

Matthew smiled softly, and patted the sheriff on the shoulder. “Well, bless your heart Sheriff, thank you for lookin’ out for me.” He peered closer at the poster, studying it carefully. “Clayton ‘The Coffin’ Sharpe. My word, that’s quite the name. What a fearsome fellow.” He looked at the sheriff, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, son, I don’t think I’ve seen a black coyote before. Or this man, whoever he is.”

The sheriff nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as he scrutinized Matthew. Finally he took the poster back and tucked it into his pocket. “Well, if that changes, let me know. Or if you remember something you may have forgot. There’s a bounty involved. You could do a lot of good with money like that, Father.”

Matthew laughed. “If the Lord takes it upon himself to bless our little church with such wealth, then I’m sure it won’t be because of the death of a wanted man. But I assure you, sheriff, I’ll be the first to let you know if this man comes prowling.” He gave a weak, nervous smile. “I’m ah, I’m not the sort to go head to head with a murderous outlaw.”

The sheriff eyed him, then shook his head. “No, I suppose not. I just hope you ain’t the sort to harbour one, neither.” He put his hat on and stepped out the door, then turned again. “Oh and preacher – I heard you ain’t been well. Hope all them tonics are doin’ you some good.”

Matthew’s stomach dropped. “Getting better every day,” he said weakly. “God go with you, Sheriff.”

He waited until Sheriff Ainsley’s back was turned, then closed the door. He bolted it, taking a moment to calm his racing heart and curse Jeb White and the sheriff to hell and back. “Wait till he’s gone,” he muttered quietly, hoping Clayton’s hearing was as good as his own when not on four legs. Then he looked out the window, ears focused on the kitchen while he watched Sheriff Ainsley walk away.

_He’ll be back. It’s only a matter of time. And we have to be ready when he does._

* * *

He waited one minute, then two, then drew the curtains and headed for the kitchen. Clayton was already limping out of the room, trying not to put any weight on his bad foot. His face was drained, mouth a thin, determined line as he hobbled along. He stepped through the doorway, making it a half-step before his foot landed wrong and his face twisted in pain.

“I have to go,” Clayton muttered. A sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. He clung to the doorway for support, barely managing to stay standing. “I can’t stay, it ain’t safe –“

Matthew stepped forward and wrapped a hand gently around his arm. “Hold on Clay, just wait a minute –“

Clayton yanked his arm away, nearly falling over with the force of the movement, staggering back into the doorframe. “I can’t _stay_ , Reverend!” he snarled, dull teeth flashing. “He fucking _knows_ , and the next time he comes by it’s gonna be with a fucking _posse_ , and I’ll be hanging before I can even think of running.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Matthew said firmly, holding out his hands like he was facing a spooked horse instead of a panicked outlaw. “I won’t let him take you, or _hang_ you, or bring you any sort of harm. I _won’t._ ”

Clayton wavered, gripping the doorframe with both hands, rage shifting into a haunted sort of despair that Matthew knew all too well. He’d felt it before, as had every man who’d been hunted, who had been forced to run. He stepped closer.

“Come on, darlin’,” Matthew murmured. “Let me help you. Let me keep you safe.”

Clayton laughed bitterly, sagging heavier against the doorframe. “You _can’t._ You can’t keep me safe, there ain’t no such thing as safe. Not for me.”

“Then we’ll go,” Matthew said, heart pounding in his chest. “We’ll go, we’ll run, we’ll get the hell away from here and never look back.”

“You don’t understand,” Clayton snapped. “I’m a goddamn _fugitive_ , I got a bounty on my head and they ain’t just gonna stop chasing me. I can’t put you at risk like that. Running ain’t an easy life, preacher.”

"What, you think I ain't ever been on the run before?" Matthew barely kept the hysterical laughter from bubbling up out of his chest. "Yours ain't the only bounty poster I've been looking for."

Clayton nearly lost his grip on the doorframe as he stared up at Matthew. Matthew swallowed down his shame and stepped in close, snagging Clayton’s arm and hauling it over his shoulder. He molded himself to Clayton’s side, wrapped an arm around his skinny hips and turned them around.

“Come on,” Matthew said, voice gentle, measured, no longer the biting thing that had escaped him just then. “Let’s get you back to bed, then we can talk.”

* * *

“I was in the cavalry,” he said, after Clayton was settled in bed, still staring at him. “We got… attacked, I suppose. By creatures, vile things that tore men apart. Not shifters, but something _else_.” He looked out the window, not wanting to see whatever was waiting for him in Clayton’s eyes. “I ran, and had to… had to kill a man in the process. The cavalry doesn’t look to kindly on either offense.” He shrugged and gave Clayton a weak smile. “I’ve been hiding ever since.”

“They don’t know you’re a wolf,” Clayton said. Matthew shook his head.

“No,” he said, “no, they don’t. I try not to shift, so that if I need an out I can…”

“You can disappear,” Clayton finished for him.

“It ain’t a perfect plan,” Matthew said. “Obviously some… some shifted forms get seen. But it feels like a failsafe. If all goes to shit, then I have an option.”

Clayton shook his head. “That’s why I have to run. You have a life here, a church and people –“

“I don’t,” Matthew said hollowly. “I don’t have anyone but you.”

Whatever Clayton was about to say dies on his tongue. Matthew reached for his hand slowly, giving him time to pull away, but Clayton just let him take his hand, let him twine their fingers together.

“Tell me if I’m misreading this,” Matthew said, suddenly desperate. “Tell me if I’m wrong, if you ain’t –“

“I am,” Clayton whispered, cutting him off. “It ain’t just you.”

Matthew couldn’t help it. Clayton was looking at him like he hung the stars from the sky, like he was all Clayton needed and more, like all the hope in the world was balanced on this moment. And Matthew couldn’t contain the thing built up in his chest, the joy and longing and _love_. He leaned over and kissed Clayton, fierce and breathless and wanting. A hand slid into his hair, keeping him close as Clayton’s mouth moved under his, inviting him in, deeper and deeper.

When Matthew broke away he leaned their foreheads together, let the hope linger between them.

“You’d give up all this?” Clayton asked quietly. “It ain’t – it ain’t a good life.”

Matthew nodded, and pressed another kiss to his lips. He lingered, savouring the feel of his lips and the rightness of it all. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and cupped Clayton’s cheek in his palm, his heart swelling as Clayton leaned into it, folded his own hand over Matthew’s, holding him close.

“It’d give it all up and more,” Matthew promised. “Any life I could lead, no matter how hard, will be better for having you in it.”

* * *

Things change so much, and then hardly at all. When Matthew tried to bed down on the floor that evening, Clayton drew him into bed beside him. He shifted until they both fit on the narrow bed, until Matthew was curled around him like they were puzzle pieces that had finally found their match, like they were meant to fit together so perfectly. He woke with their hands twined together and Clayton’s lips on his hair, and felt joy ignite in his chest like wildfire.

* * *

The next few days passed swiftly. Matthew lead the Church service on Sunday, keeping up the façade of the good reverend in place. Jeb White was missing, but his wife was there in their usual pew. She didn’t shake his hand when she slipped out the door, merely tugged their children along behind her, head held high. The sheriff was there too, watching Matthew a bit too closely. Matthew doubted he was paying attention to his sermon. But he didn’t come by, didn’t knock on the door again. Matthew did’t know what he was waiting for, but he was willing to take whatever extra time they had.

They planned, and prepared, and waited for Clayton to heal. Shifter healing was quick, but it wasn’t without it’s limits. There was no magical healing like the fables old men told about them, no wounds sealing shut right before someone’s eyes. It took time for bones to knit themselves together, and for new skin to grow.

And as time passed, Matthew grew more and more hopeful that maybe it was a fluke, and maybe he misunderstood. Maybe the sheriff was just being overbearing, maybe they weren’t in any risk. Maybe his town would stay loyal, and faithful, and true.

He didn’t tell Clayton this, and didn’t stop planning. He couldn’t risk him, couldn’t depend on his hopes and his prayers to protect them.

(But he kept hoping and praying anyway.)

* * *

They waited until Clayton’s foot was healed enough to walk. When he could put most of his weight down on his foot and take a step without wincing, Matthew pressed on his foot with careful fingers, noting with satisfaction the lack of shifting and splintered bones that were there before. There was still a slight limp to his step, but it might be there a while. Healing like this took time, and always carried scars.

“You sure?” Matthew asked, standing up and moving a step back. Clayton nodded jerkily, then stripped off his shirt.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”

A minute later and they were both shifted. Matthew lay down and looked up at where Clayton peered down at him from atop the bed, his big ears rotated all the way forwards. Matthew whined, and wagged his tail furiously. Clayton yipped, then jumped off the bed, slinking forwards to Matthew curiously. There was a brief moment, a pause, as they adjusted to each other’s scents. Then Clayton licked his jaw, and Matthew buried his nose in Clayton’s fur, and in barely any time at all they were curled together in a tangle of fur.

It felt right. It felt like _home._

* * *

He went into town on Friday to pick up supplies. Nothing much, just flour, tins of milk, a small packet of ground coffee. He was being intentional about not picking up more than he would normally buy, about keeping up the appearance that things are normal.

He was just stepping into Springer’s General Store when he heard the whisper from across the way, the one he shouldn’t have heard, the one no human could have made out.

“I hear the sheriff paid him a visit,” a woman was whispering. Martha Stone, he reckoned by the rasp in her voice. “Thinks he’s hiding that outlaw Jeb’s been yappin’ about.”

Matthew nodded at Harold, then picked his way down the aisle closest to the front window, ears straining to hear.

“He thinks it’s even one of them damn shifters,” Martha continued. “I don’t know why he don’t just go in and drag him out. He’s got silver bullets, don’t he?”

“Bill said the sheriff’s just waitin’ on backup,” another woman whispered back. Ida Snow. “He don’t wanna try and storm the Church by his lonesome.”

“He should get a posse,” Martha muttered. “Ain’t right, hidin’ someone in the Lord’s house.”

Ida snorted. “Jeb’d be yankin’ at the bit if Ainsley just asked. But Sal thinks he don’t want to split the bounty with him, you know they got beef.”

He waited and listened, heart pounding in his chest, but the conversation drifted to the usual sort of town gossip, the kind that didn’t involve bounties and hangings and hating shifters. He sent a prayer of thanks to the Lord for the blessing of his ears, and the warning he had been handed.

Then he bought his supplies, and headed home.

* * *

Clayton was waiting when he returned, and his face grew dark at what Matthew had heard. “When are we leaving?”

Matthew looked at him, then out the window, at the little town that had made him feel like he almost belonged. “I have one last sermon to give. If that’s alright?”

Clayton nodded and squeezed his hand. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

* * *

A short while later Matthew sat on the bed, watching Clayton pack the last of his meagre belongings back in his satchel.

“Would you like to take a bath?” he asked abruptly. Clayton looked back at him and cocked an eyebrow.

"It’s Saturday," Matthew said, flushing. "That's normally when I draw a full bath for myself. I just... thought it might be nice, especially with us leavin’ and all.”

Clayton grinned ruefully, running a hand through his hair. "I guess I probably need one, huh."

Matthew laughed. “You’re mighty handsome as you are, but I think we could both use one.”

Clayton nodded and pulled him in for a kiss. “Sure. That’d be swell.”

* * *

By the time he’d hauled in and heated the water, their bags were by the door, ready to go. Three satchels, lined in a row. Clayton was waiting patiently in the kitchen, stripped to his skivvies, and Matthew swallowed hard as he took in the bare skin before him.

“Do you need a hand?” he asked, gesturing at Clayton’s foot. “Don’t want you to hurt yourself when you step in.”

Clayton quirked a smile. “Sure.” He stripped shamelessly out of his undershirt and smalls, then limped closer to the tub and held out his arm. Matthew ducked under it and wrapped an arm around Clayton’s waist. Before Clayton could do the awkward hop into the tub Matthew lifted, pulling him off his feet and depositing him neatly in the tub. Water sloshed, and Clayton barked out a laugh.

“Fuck, Matthew, you’re strong.” Clayton settled down into the tub and let out a sigh. “Holy shit this is nice,” he muttered as he sank into the hot water, eyes closing in bliss.

Matthew laughed and pulled out the bar of soap while Clayton glared up at him half-heartedly.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he said. “Or at least get clean first, while the water’s still hot.”

“That takes effort,” Clayton said, letting his head fall back against the rim of the tub with a low groan. Matthew swallowed, heat pooling in his gut at the sight of Clayton, at the long line of his throat and the expanse of skin that lay just beneath the water.

He meant to leave. He meant to, but instead he found the words “I could help,” tripping from his tongue. Clayton blinked up at him, and Matthew felt a flush burn it’s way onto his cheeks.

Then Clayton smiled, and all Matthew’s uncertainty faded. “Alright.”

* * *

Matthew unbuttoned his shirt with shaky fingers, leaving him in only his undershirt. then knelt beside the tub, shoving a towel under his knees. He exhaled, long and slow, then scooped up the washcloth and soap. He lathered it up, then slid the washcloth Clayton’s arm, marvelling at the shift of muscle beneath his skin, at the feel of his body under his hand.

“We shoulda done this earlier,” Clayton mumbled, relaxing into Matthew’s hands. “I forgot how nice baths are.”

Matthew hummed and slid his washcloth-covered hand up Clayton’s shoulder. "Guess it's probably been a while since you had a proper bath, huh? Can't imagine it'd be easy to do out in the woods."

Clayton nodded, relaxing further into the water. "You ain't wrong. I can't even remember how long it's been."

"How long have you been -" (on the run, an outlaw, on four legs, in the woods, _alone_ -) "in your shifted form for?" Matthew asked, trying to keep his voice soft, to keep the burning curiosity at bay. Clayton had never said, not exactly; he just knew that it had been years.

Clayton hummed, eyes slipping closed. "On and off, whenever I ain’t workin’, but... fourteen? Fifteen years? Damn long time."

 _That’s so much longer than I’d ever imagined._ Matthew closed his eyes and tried to imagine the reality of being on the run for that goddamn _long_. He couldn’t, and he felt sick in his stomach for Clayton, and for the boy he must have been. _He ain’t old enough for him to have been more than a teenager._

“Do you have a pack?” he asked softly. “Would have been mighty lonesome, being on the run by yourself for that long.”

Clayton shook his head, and Matthew’s stomach sunk. “We don’t have packs,” he mumbled. “We have bonded pairs, or family groups. Siblings and the like. But I ain’t got any family, not anymore. And I ain’t bonded.” His voice sunk to a whisper, and Matthew almost missed what he said next. “Not yet, at least.”

Matthew’s heart flipped, and his hand stalled on Clayton’s shoulder. “Is that something you want?”

Clayton rolled his head back onto the rim of the rub and looked up at him, clear blue eyes studying his face. He nodded slowly, then reached up and took Matthew’s hand. Matthew clung to him, not even trying to contain the longing he knew must linger in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Clayton breathed. “Yeah, it is.”

Then he twisted around, reached up his hand, and pulled Matthew in for a kiss.

* * *

Matthew carried Clayton into his room, leaving a trail of dripping bathwater behind them. Clayton’s mouth was sealed to his, arms tight around his shoulders, legs wrapped around Matthew’s waist. He felt so _right_ in Matthew’s arms, heavy and solid and _real_.

Matthew walked them to his bed and set Clayton down in the spot of afternoon sunlight streaming across his sheets. Then he laid him out, kissed the words from Clayton’s mouth, and worshipped him with hands and lips and tongue until Clayton was shaking in his grasp.

And as Clayton arched beneath him, throat bared and mouth falling open, the room ringing with the sounds of their pleasure, Matthew knew that this was it. He would never find anything better than this, than the balance and beauty and fulfillment that Clayton brought to his life. Clayton was strong, and fierce, and Matthew wanted him more than he had ever wanted in his life. He hadn’t thought it was possible, to want someone this much.

Clayton urged him on, clutched him tighter, left his own bruises on Matthew’s skin until they were shaking apart together, falling deeper into each other. It was messy and imperfect, but so terribly _right,_ leaving them both breathless and sated on the bed. 

Matthew kissed Clayton through the aftershocks, then held him close. But the desire to keep this man forever, the yearning that filled him to the brim didn’t sate; it just grew, brighter and brighter, like a lantern inviting him home.

* * *

That night Clayton told him, in hushed whispers and under the cover of darkness, about Amos Kinsley and the murder he didn’t commit, and running, and how he’d taken up the mantle of outlaw that had been pressed upon him.

“I ain’t a good man, Matthew,” he whispered.

“Neither am I,” Matthew whispered back. He pulled Clayton into his arms and buried his face in his hair, then laid bare his own guilt, his own wretchedness. For all his faith, and all his prayers, he knew that he could never atone; not fully. When he fell quiet, Clayton kissed him again, then laid his head over Matthew’s heart.

“Maybe we don’t have to be good,” Clayton murmured against his skin. “Maybe we can just be. Maybe that would be enough.”

* * *

Sunday morning, bright and early, he handed Clayton the tiny jewelry box he’d stuffed in his sock drawer, his heart in his throat. He couldn’t explain it, the desire to give him this gift, this small and delicate thing. It was impractical and overly sentimental; but then so was Matthew, with his foolish, romantic heart.

"You bought me - you bought me a gift?" Clayton's voice was hushed and tentative, and Matthew couldn’t quite understand what was written on his face. He opened the small box, touched the pinchbeck locket with careful fingers.

"I did." Matthew ducked his head, flushing down to his collar. "You don’t have to wear it, if’n you don’t want to. It's just... just costume jewelry, ain't really worth anything - "

Clayton touched his hand softly, then reached up to press a kiss to his cheek. "It's perfect."

* * *

Matthew knew there was a better way to do this, a smarter way. But he couldn’t help the swell of rage at the injustice of it all, at the betrayal that cut deep. He stood in the pulpit and silently looked at his congregation, at the people he’d built hope upon, however meager it had been.

_I was foolish, to build my house upon sand._

“You people, with all your convictions, and your self-righteousness,” he said. “You forget yourselves. When I came here, I thought I had found kindness, and honour, and a faith to build upon. But now… now I find rot, and hatred, and greed that has poisoned the hearts of good men. In the hearts of you, who would cast out your own to claim a bounty, and who take vengeance into your own hands for a crime you know nothing of.”

“But vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” he boomed. “ _I_ will repay.” He paused and took a breath. His next words were quiet, but still echoed through the small space. “If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him drink. But you, you foolish people. You say that the Church is intended for godly men alone, and you should cast out anyone who seeks refuge here. But this – this is the Lord’s house, and he alone can decide who is worthy. And has he not said that he is our rock, our refuge, our safe shelter? Who are we to deny the refuge of the Lord’s house to any living man?”

He looked at the Sheriff and his children, then at Jeb White, sitting stock still beside his wife. Somewhere in the congregation, was Martha Stone, Harold Springer, and every other member of their little town who had been willing to turn their backs on him so easily.

“I came here to encourage your faith, and to help you seek redemption. But I see now that I have failed. You care not for the harm that you do, but rejoice in the fact that you might kill a shifter **.** You curse them, and load your guns and line your traps with silver. But shifters are the Lord’s people, just as much as each and any of you.” Matthew paused and let the echoing silence seep in.

“And this?” he reached under the pulpit and took hold of the silver-coated trap, hoisting it high above his head. Pain sliced across his palm, hot and sharp. “This burns me, too.”

He dropped it on the pulpit, the clang of the metal on wood ringing through the church in condemnation. He held up his hand, striped with bright red burns, and showed the people the sign of their hatred.

“Your lord calls for you to be merciful. So I ask you now. Where, oh people, is your mercy, and your grace?”

Shocked faces stared up at him, and their silence was all the answer he needed. He shook his head, and walked from the church, leaving the trap where it lay.

* * *

The church erupted into whispers as soon as the door was closed behind him. He heard mutters about shifters, and about the trap, and about the outlaw. The shock and confusion mingled as voices rose into a garbled hubbub. He stood with his back to the door and listened, catching bits here and there.

“The Reverend is a shifter? We should never have brought him into town –“

“He’s still a goddamn _preacher_ , Martha, sit your ass down and show some respect –“

“I can’t believe my children saw that –“

Finally one voice rose above the others. Loud, and heavy with anger. _The sheriff._

“We’ll take the women and children back to town. Then any man that wants can come meet me at my office. Bring your guns, and any silver you got.”

Matthew felt a brief flash of grief at the betrayal that he’d known was coming. He knew people like this, small-minded and stuck in their ways. He knew the draw of gold, and the thrill of catching a bounty. But that didn’t make the betrayal less, didn’t change the grief. He closed his eyes and breathed. Then he let it go, and said a prayer, reminding himself of the words of God he’d spoken not five minutes before.

_Vengeance is yours. You will repay. And please, Lord, repay._

* * *

They waited until the last of the church-goers had fled back to town, the sheriff leading the way. Most of the men would be back, as quickly as they could. But Matthew and Clayton would be long gone by the time they returned, fleeing east, never to return.

He’d packed his satchel carefully the day before. There wasn’t much he needed, and not much that he owned. Just a handful of clothing, his Bible, and the small pouch of money he’d scraped and saved for. It wasn’t like he was a wealthy man, and almost everything in his home belonged to the Church; it wouldn’t feel right to take it. He wasn’t opposed to theft (how could he be, with a past such as his?), but he remembered the relief at finding pots and pans, dishware and linens all folded neatly in the dusty little living quarters behind the church. He wanted whoever followed in his place to feel that sort of welcome, that sort of relief. And besides, Clayton and he were trying to travel light; just what they could carry, nothing more. One satchel each, and one for food. That sort of travel wasn’t new to him, and even though it had been a while since he’d had to run, he still felt the thrill of something new and exciting ahead. Most of that, he was sure, was due to the fact that Clayton was going with him.

_I ain’t leavin’ my pack behind. Not this time._

He knew that he would miss the church, this tiny little plot of dirt and stone that he had called his own for nearly two years. He would miss some of the people too, and mourn the betrayal, but more than that he would miss the posssibility that always hung in such a place. The loss would settle in later, like it always did. But in the meantime, he was gaining so much more.

He thought about the man beside him and the tiny pack they made, and about the future he’d never really thought he’d have, the one with his _mate_. The one where he could be happy. The one where he could be whole.

(He thought about Clayton whispering on the pillow beside him that “coyotes mate for life, Matty.”

He thought about the soft press of Clayton’s kiss, and his own hushed reply, as solemn as any prayer.

“So do wolves.”)

“Ready to go?” Clayton asked quietly. Matthew nodded, and pulled his hand from the sun-warmed bricks of the little tiny church that had brought him his future. He thought of the tiny locket with the twist of grey fur inside, clasped tight around Clayton’s neck, and the pretty blue shirt buried in Matthew’s bag.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, let’s go.”

* * *

Matthew stood in front of his new church, staring up at the burnt husk that somehow still stood. It had been burned in an accident, they said. A celebration gone wrong, they said. Matthew wasn’t quite naïve enough to believe them, but he took hope in the skeleton that remained and the charred cross still secured on the roof. For even a burnt church still held a husk of faith, a trace of God in this bitter little town. And that was enough to build on. He’d built faith on less before.

A hand slipped into his, calloused and worn, but so perfectly sized, the perfect fit in his. Clayton squeezed his hand, grip solid and sure. He looked up at Matthew, blue eyes peering out from under the brim of his hat, a small smile on his face. Matthew smiled back, joy and love tangled up with hope in his chest.

“It’s perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Hope y'all enjoyed, this has been my baby for the past couple months and I'm so glad I finally got to share it with y'all. Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3 
> 
> I can be found on the tumblr [here](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/).


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